Ah the wonders of spring cleaning! Here is a poem I wrote after a return from Israel and Greece back in 1995, that I had entirely forgotten about:

Via Dolorosa

A  moment unfolds into history;
a mountain, a shore, a person, a word;
within an hour glass, movements leave marks;
eroded hillside and sunken city.
A stone is not left upon another,
but where a footprint was, a fragrance lingers.

A net is cast upon the morning sea.
The ripples spread like an echoing voice,
calling a name beyond tides of ages,
leaking from stone cisterns of fallen kings;
a patch of green is found in the desert.

These burrowing streets of stone
reveal thel polis both ancient and new.

יוֹם יְרוּשָׁלַיִם
(Day of Jerusalem), the gathered house
dances, dressed in trembling tefillin.
A wall of stone that hides the Shekinah
is strategically assaulted by prayer.

A subterranean gate is unearthed
marking a passage taken to the heart.
The mosaic of thought is uncovered
revealing patterns that connect the past.

A moment unfolds into history.
Our own fanciful greek archetypes leap
from deep within our ancient high temples
but we stop dead in our tracks at the call
heard from an altar to an unknown God.

We are all archaeologists who dig
piece by piece secrets from our broken shards,
peeling back layers from entombed cities,
pinpointing the place to which we belong.

We are all seeking our own history;
The narratives that call us by our names.
en arch hn o logoV, kai egw
(In the beginning was the Word, and I)
am drawn to synchrony beyond aeon,
where Eternity steps into the street
and calls you to follow.

(C) John Smyrl 2007