I met you in Jerusalem
Where every limestone was worn smooth with time
And ever corner hummed and whispered
From 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 just a gardener, I’d pick you a flower every day.”

I laughed aloud but your words stayed near
Simple, tender, and strangely clear.
The words softened the cities’ ancient weight,
And for a moment 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.

Would you have planted orange flowers
On hills that glow in the summer’s haze?
Would you be a gardener?
Your name meaning golden, fruitful place?

Instead, I smile to know that instead you code,
Building worlds with logic’s mode.
Still In the quiet corners of my mind,
I plant your words through seeds of time.