a poem in my pocket

climbing up steep

bare hillside from

the verdant jordan

river valley below,

two young disciples

find a stark white,

solitary statue atop

hill’s rocky terrain;

life-sized figure of

robed, middle-age

woman forever

paused mid-stride,

glancing regretfully

over her shoulder

pilgrims, startled by chance find,

circle her with low murmurs

“this is simply amazing, who knew?”

“such realistic details, sculpted by a master!”

“must be ancient yet so well-preserved”

one hiker touches lone pillar’s arm

and inspects grains rubbed off

“hmmm, smells like sulphur and tastes like salt”

companion blanches at sudden realization,

a discovery of biblical proportions.