Into The Sea

Fleeing from Egypt,
Nachshon Ben Amichai was the first
to march into the Sea,

Before Moses with his staff,
before Aaron with his rod,
before Miriam with her timbral,
before the waves themselves
had parted.

Where did he get the chutzpah?
From where the nerve, the verve?
You have to wonder - when
it's so difficult, sometimes,
To make a simple decision.

Maybe he could hear
The Divine pounding
Pounding inside.

Does Anyone Have A Tissue?

"Does anyone have a tissue?",  asks Miriam.
Easy, straight forward, yet, for me, it's not
easy to ask for favors, even small ones.

My brother says, "Thank God I can receive love
from the birds." Not easy for him to be with
people, but birds are fine.

Frying Eggs on the Sidewalk

In Tucson, you can scorch your hand
on the handle of a car door,
or fry an egg on the sidewalk.

In New York, beware of black ice,
you can slip, not difficult at all,
take it from me.

So easy to get fried or iced,
a moment's inattention,
a willing suspension, and
all that misery - so unwanted.

These Bare Limbs

Staring at trees has become my daily
ritual, deciding if a tree is male,
female, old young, strong, feeble,
intelligent, fearful.

Second day of January, out walking.
Will I meet a friend for my soul,
will we exchange names,
converse?

Will these bare limbs remind me
of someone from my past, someone
I haven't seen in years?

Will we continue our discourse
from long ago?

Threads of Saffron

I'd drizzled the sky with threads of saffron
to mark the new year. Air still very still,
only the tip tops of trees stirred and
my cheeks burned to a burnt sienna.

If only I had a baklava, I'd
traipse across the tundra like a Russian
peasant. I'd feed salt to spotted deer.
I'd drizzle the sky with threads of saffron.
.

Bare of Burgundy and Berry

The trees are bare of their lemony leaves,
bare of burgundy and berry.
Branches stretch out, some forked, some leaning,
I wonder if I will heal and stay alive.

I try not to wonder too much.
I trust that I will live as my mother,
father, grandmother lived into ripe
old age, into lemony, berry old age.

Thoughts on a Snowy Morning

Pine needles spread across the mustard sky,
I wonder if I will heal and stay alive?

There is a brook, pebbles, slabs of rock,
stepping stones to the next right step.

Who can know the next right step,
mossy, slippery, shimmering, wet?

Revel in the pale mustard beauty of the sky
whispering her secrets.

                ***

A home is a precious thing, so is a friend,
so is a person with whom you share life.

Try to show your love in little ways,
peel an orange and separate the segments.

Draw up the juice onto your lips,
give away a sliver.

Drink the green tea of love,
eat the prunes of compassion.