He listened while they yammered about the fig tree,
the money changers and the animal sellers.
It was apocalyptic talk, they said:
a fig tree cannot bear fruit out of season,
a temple cannot operate without
tradition, and surely mountains do not fly
into the sea. He closed his eyes and yawned.
They argued on. He fell asleep and dreamed
a little dream. No heaven-rending vision;
just ordinary faces in the crowd:
a child whose upstretched arms begged to be held,
a woman merely asking to be healed
a leper yearning only to be whole.
They did not ask so much. He saw each one
while dreaming of an ordinary world,
the slow, patient turning of day to night,
the whisper of a breeze to lift the heat,
the juicy, sweetmeat taste of figs in season.
He listened to their ordinary prayers
as though there was an altar in his heart
and he the priest. He smiled, and mountains flew.