The Most Ancient Traveler

A Russian river, maybe the Volga,
overhead, three ravens cross the wintery sky,
then swoop down on an ice glazed branch -
Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew,
while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon.

We trudge up fifteen steps, freshly shoveled.
A lit candelabra welcomes us.
Inside guests gather. I greet paintings
from other walls, carpets from other planks,
piano hauled from home to home.

A gaggle of students huddle on a couch,
quacking, quacking, flipping cards
across a cedar chest, when down swoop -
Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew,
while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon.

One Pakistani, one Afghani, one from Iran,
"These three always hang together," he says.
An Indian woman with diamond studs joins them,
also a one-legged lad; half Chinese, half white, and
Daniel, son of Survivors, his wife, Tova, their son, Levi.

All here to celebrate Andy's birthday
come round like a full moon.
Against all odds, he's alive.
The piano has traveled, as have I.
Raising my glass of Russian River, I toast
the heart - by far, the most ancient traveler.

I'm enraptured by the moon come round
for one more birthday in late February.
From an ice glazed branch, three ravens swoop down -
Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew,
while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon.