Enter Shadows

Then I saw the shadow 

of the massive cypress tree

split the queue of cars in two. 

How can a neighborhood be as narrow 

as Ramallah al-Tahta?

How can one tree’s shadow 

be as vast as a border cleaving countries?

How can night and day lie together on one street 

like husband and wife—

how can poems and people 

share one sheet?

By this afternoon, the cypress tree’s shadow 

will have shrunk into a little girl 

holding out her hand. 

Driving home from work, 

our white and yellow plates 

will clog the streets; at the checkpoints, 

cars will stretch far into the distance;

and on the bypass roads, 

orange buses will sit heavy with students. 

The trees have always known better— 

they let strange winds rush into their arms; 

they cast borders 

and then they reverse them.