I met you in Jerusalem
Where every limestone was worn smooth with time
And every corner hummed and whispered
Of the sacred and sublime

I asked for directions, just passing through
Your smile felt like something new.

We wandered streets as daylight waned,
Past alleys where the past remained.
In a playful tone, you turned to say,
“If I were a gardener, I’d pick you a flower every day.”

I laughed aloud, yet your words stayed near,
Simple, tender, and strangely clear.
They softened the city’s ancient weight,
It nearly bent the hand of fate.

We parted as travelers often do,
With no promises - just a fleeting truth.
But I wonder now, across the seas,
If you think of California’s mountain breeze.

And while not a gardener, now writing code
You still craft worlds in structured rows
Building worlds of logic’s mode

As you leave the shuk hugging flowers red
The future blooms from your pathway’s tread
And here in the quiet corners of my mind
I plant your words in seeds of time