Women's Day

There were the bunches of mimosa. I returned from Iran once on Women's Day, and was given a bunch at the airport in Italy. Delicate yellow flower, and here it hangs beside the thick golden stone walls.
I talk with my sister, whom i have not seen for a couple of years.
She is my little sister, I remember bathing her when she was a baby. Now the difference in years is unimportant.
There is so much to tell, and memories to unwrap and untarnish. Well, this is a good place to do it, city of many thousand years and far too many words.
The sun is bringing spring and small flowers and the little children iutside wear their exotic costumes for Purim. We cannot forget the years of exile and opprrssion. Yet it goes on.
There is a school down the road from where my sister lives that has both Arab and Jewish kids/pupils. The only one, I believe, in this country. Raise a hundred cheers.
I think of King Lear; is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?
Or: Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets and stonest them that are sent unto thee... and as Bob Dylan asks, When will they ever learn?
And we know the question has no answer.
Thoughts as the sun sets over this city of golden walls.