Friday, May 18, 2018

Manna toward the Omer (49 toward the Omer)

One final day between giving and receiving, a walk with the beloved, don’t have what to say (it is meant to be this way, the flower breathes—and then there is nothing left but everything, the wind carrying seed, the time between, no healing needed, presence like a whisper)

48 toward the Omer

yesod shebmalkhut

My love mows across the flowers and almost cannot. Some days, writing is neither where it starts nor where it ends. I know, God says. You think I could have done all this without dancing a little first? God, sometimes, I say, I imagine I’m dancing with you.

Me too, God says, except for this—neither of us is pretending, are we? We’re not a dream anymore, are we? And were we ever just that? I hug the new thrift store rocking chair close once more before letting go, think, a hold for that which holds

Thursday, May 17, 2018

47 toward the Omer

hod shebmalkhut

My hair moves along with the leaves—the same wind blows it. My heart leaps along with yours—the same upwelling fills it. I did not know I could be trapped until the door closed. I did not know I could be free until I opened it.

46 toward the Omer

netzach shebmalkhut

Movement grows around the rocking chair. A squirrel and a robin take turns on the same stump. A little bird with a big song looks up, throat exposed. A chipmunk comes up onto the porch, approaches, leaves. I go inside. The dandelions slowly turn into dandelions.

45 toward the Omer

The bamboo on the corner of my desk by the window stands tall, and I am overcome. Downstairs, there is street noise to protect my back, a holding kind of chatter. The chair does not reject me. I can stay as long as I’d like.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

44 toward the Omer #3

gevurah shebmalkhut

Forest returns to either side of us. Have I told you, I tell her, that one of my great sadnesses is the way that roads cut through habitats? I want you to know, I tell her, that that is one of my great sadnesses.

44 toward the Omer #2

gevurah shebmalkhut

Are you bringing anything back with you? the customs officer asks. Just a friend’s lasagna, I say. As we talk with the man running the farm stand outside the Port Byron rest stop, a yellow jacket lands on a glass jar of bee pollen.

44 toward the Omer

gevurah shebmalkhut

WE CATER THE BEGINNING AND THE END, proclaims The Schmaltz’s sign. ASK ABOUT PLATTERS FOR A SHIVA OR BRIS. We eat bagels and gravlax surrounded by wet chairs on wet tables. God is still there, I say, gesturing toward a there and meaning it.

43 toward the Omer

chesed shebmalkhut

Less queasy from eating lamb cholent at ten the night before after a lemon currant scone and decaf latte, I sit alone for a minute at the outdoor table, watch her water the cafe’s daffodils from the bottom of her newly broken Nalgene

42 toward the Omer #3

malkhut shebyesod

The dove sighs inside the wet stomach. What are you doing here? the big fish says. I don’t know, the dove says. Do you have anywhere I can rest for a minute? I swallowed a nice branch yesterday, the big fish says.