Omer 5778

Omer poems 2018 (5778)
preceded by a pre-Pesach poem

Pre-Pesach poem

Fields of dry cattails line the dock, then ice
and blue sky. I lie down on the wood, touch
my glove to a frozen bubble, hear the
creak under her waterproof hiking boot and
hate her, hate that she has broken through,
and move on. An upside-down beetle clings
to the underbelly of the surface, finds
the opening, stops, turns, and walks away.
Larvae inch themselves forward and crest
and become something. Cold air dries new wings.
They will fly until the next snow falls.
In bed, my teeth clench with unsaid prayers.

3.20.2018

1 toward the Omer
chesed shebchesed

Caleb
wags
her
tail
a
room
away
when
he
calls
Caleb

4.1.2018

2 toward the Omer
gevurah shebchesed

I put
my password
into the
app SelfControl

and find
myself, re-leased

4.2.2018

3 toward the Omer
tiferet shebchesed

(it was always
me and You

because me and
them was not

but now it
is and You

are in us
or among or

on another plane
and also the

lines between there
is no need

to reduce the
tension don’t You

make me choose
as if You

were just some
third side I

learned in my family
systems class that

triangles just feel
like a resolution)

(we are all
already right here)

4.3.2018

4 toward the Omer
netzach shebchesed

Charoset on salad greens
as dessert number two
after handfuls of chocolate

4.3.2018

4 toward the Omer #2
netzach shebchesed

Rabbi Tarfon might say
you’ve written four words

Rabbi Tarfon might say
write four more words

Rabbi Tarfon might say
don’t nothing yourself for

4.3.2018

5 toward the Omer
hod shebchesed

some where along the highway:
lost car keys could happen
to anyone, I remind myself,
rather, anyone with car keys

4.5.2018

6 toward the Omer
yesod shebchesed

When someone is healing, you do
what you have to do, and
someone is always healing. This is
the teaching. Go and learn it.

4.8.2018

6 toward the Omer #2
yesod shebchesed

When someone is healing, you do.

4.8.2018

7 toward the Omer
malkhut shebchesed

I sit down next to her curled
on the pillow by the front door,
call her sister, love what this allows,
for calling her sister calls me now—
calling her sister somehow calls me present

4.10.2018

8 toward the Omer
chesed shebigvurah
in honor of Rev. Aisha Ansano’s ordination

She appears as the center of a sunflower
grown by the people she has helped grow

4.10.2018

9 toward the Omer
gevurah shebigvurah
In continued memory-livracha of my grandmother, Sylvia Greenfield Moses

like a butterfly released from a very pretty net

4.10.2018

10 toward the Omer
tiferet shebigvurah

I settle on the wood floor by the bed, search
for my pen to write down how his hand touches
the corner of the ceiling over the stairs, it’s something
about this soft acknowledgement of the edges of the world

4.10.2018

11 toward the Omer
netzach shebigvurah

In this calm night my left calf holds something for me
and I worry until I realize it wants me-us to dance

4.11.2018

12 toward the Omer
hod shebigvurah

somewhere between exceptionalism and the deep pit (another form of exceptionalism?)

there is being a human (also, some passersby returned my car keys)

4.12.2018

13 toward the Omer
yesod shebigvurah

Skipping stones—the way: to make contact, to move forward, to make contact,

4.13.2018

14 toward the Omer
malkhut shebigvurah

It is taught: pikuach nefesh docheh haShabbat. Is it not taught: i.e., your soul?
A teacher says: Save your soul, then find Shabbat again. Another teacher says What?!
The editors modify: When you choose to save a soul, your soul is opened

4.15.2018

14 toward the Omer #2
malkhut shebigvurah

Outside, inside the fence, at a restaurant. I tilt back in my metal armchair
the way my classmates got scolded for in middle school and realize I’m okay.
Two more join, also not eating, and share how they came to be present.
You’ve met three times, I say, now minhag, right? My friend says: A chazaka.
I say: Right, a chazaka. She says: Some say neder. I say: Chazaka chazaka
v’nitchazeika. She says: An adjective or an imperative? Bat Kol says: I’m off today

4.15.2018

15 toward the Omer
chesed shebtiferet

there is rest to be found in the moment when everything hangs in the balance

4.15.2018

16 toward the Omer

I call out I do not see you and in me naming this you show up
or do I for there is no way to know where you are before I arrive

4.16.2018

17 toward the Omer
tiferet shebtiferet

Does ice rain count as frost? I ask my best friend the flower farmer while driving home,
and to her credit, she does not laugh. In the morning I walk on asphalt by earth bare again
but for scattered clumps of green still bursting through, as they will do, like joy through sorrow

4.17.2018

18 toward the Omer
netzach shebtiferet

Long worms are out on the dark wet road, and I make some effort to step around them.
She wraps up. How does that land on your heart? she says. Where is my heart? I say,
and let the phone drop, and go in search of my heart, and find it, and it shares.
Back inside, the little dog named Autumn is asleep along the top of the back of the sofa.
I start to pet her then stop, worrying that I will knock her off. She does not say
Could you please just trust that I have a knack for balance, and can you hold with me
that a small tumble in pursuit of greater connection is something we both know how to survive,
and some wellnesses are too immense and infallible ever to be upset irrevocably by the likes of us?

4.17.2018

19 toward the Omer
hod shebtiferet

Sometimes, the chair falls out from under you, and sometimes, someone pulls the chair out from under someone else,

and you watch, and sometimes, the person didn't mean to, and they apologize, and sometimes, it's no big deal,

and sometimes it's a big deal. Sometimes goodbyes are hard. Sometimes goodbyes are built out of Legos, or slime,

or earrings that you don't have holes for, and sometimes goodbyes are returned earrings. Sometimes, goodbyes are a chair

pulled out from under you. Sometimes they didn't mean to, and they apologize, and sometimes, it's no big deal,

and sometimes it's a big deal. Sometimes goodbyes are a chair made of Legos, or slime, or earrings you

just don't have holes for anymore. Sometimes, someone pulls the chair out from under someone else, and you watch,

and you didn't mean to. Sometimes, the chair falls out from under you, and you, built of chairs, apologize.

4.19.2018

20 toward the Omer
yesod shebtiferet

“Despite the fact that the funding for this jail has been halted and people are tied down at the construction

site, Dow Constantine has continued to rush the construction….Imagine what we can get done if we actually get invested

in our future generations and communities instead of jailing them.” —Daniel Oron, filming today’s No New Youth Jail protest, Seattle

And as some are arrested, others sing: “Courage, courage, my friend, friend, you do not walk alone. We will, we

will, walk with you and sing your spirit home. Courage, courage, my friend, my friend, you do not walk alone.

We will, we will, walk with you, walk with you, and sing your spirit home.” People’s Mic: This is a

quote from Assata Shakur. It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We

must love and protect each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains. It is our duty to fight

for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love and protect one another. We have nothing to

lose but our chains. We have nothing to lose but our chains. We have nothing to lose but our chains.

We have nothing to lose but our chains. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail.

No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail.

No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail. No New Youth Jail.
4.20.2018

21 toward the Omer
malkhut shebtiferet

This and that. This and the other one. This and one. This and be present. This and be present to this
and that. This and the present one. This and be. This and be one. This and be other are one. This

4.22.2018

22 toward the Omer
chesed shebnetzach

and the point drops, bottoms out, spreads, always right there beneath your wings, should you choose to fly, create space for it

4.22.2018

23 toward the Omer
gevurah shebnetzach

New lavender plant in my hands, I walk back by the lawn where the two girls had told me about the watering can

their daddy is spraypainting pink for them, and they are going to share it, and mommy and daddy also have a watering can,

and here (running into the garage and bringing it out) it is, and I think, Verily, I have experienced wellbeing in my life.

4.23.2018

24 toward the Omer
tiferet shebnetzach

I pick the clear Harmony stone from the bowl on the table and hold it on my open palm. I want it to fit

and there is nothing, which could be okay. I put it back and pick up the translucent Accept stone, hold it in my palm.

It is heavier. My head aches, and I pause, and I pocket it. Another person takes the Harmony stone and is happy. I hope

that it brings good for them. I hope that I can live in the single note, the note under notes. That I sing it.

That in singing it, my head aches less. And if it does not, that I remember to turn the stone over, then over again.

4.24.2018

25 toward the Omer

I make quiche using pie crusts I had forgotten I had that were in someone else’s fridge, and it is easy, and not so simple,

for, even as we are dust and come from dust and return to dust, giving others what I declared before Leaving shall be like dust

is not a simple matter, dusty food is never a simple matter, even tasty dusty food full of onion and garlic and eggs and potatoes,

nor is feeding dusty words, tasty dusty words, dripping with dust, please, there is no ease here, don’t breathe these in, it’s not so simple

4.27.2018

26 toward the Omer
hod shebnetzach

There are some goodbyes it takes one, and some goodbyes it takes two. What is a goodbye that takes one? It is when one leaves another.

What is a goodbye that takes two? When two leave each other. The supervisor comes and teaches: The first is when only one can tolerate it,

and the obligation falls upon that one. The supervisor adds on: Some goodbyes happen once, and some goodbyes happen more than once, until both are ready.

4.27.2018

27 toward the Omer
yesod shebnetzach

Today’s learning: it is important to plant trees with the start of the root flare aboveground so the trunk can be trunk and let roots be roots

4.27.2018

28 toward the Omer
malkhut shebnetzach

I thought to write about you but what it was is gone—all that remains is a need to fold you in, seen, hidden, cinnamon in kneaded challah

4.29.2018

29 toward the Omer
chesed shebhod

There is just something about this tree buckling the sidewalk, and then I notice the plaque: Tree Champion. As I write this, the Massachusetts Champion Tree List tells me

that this Quercus palustris is 223.2 inches in circumference, 112 feet tall, and 112.5 feet in average crown spread, resulting in 363 Total Tree Points. There is just something

4.29.2018

30 toward the Omer
gevurah shebhod

The room comes back into focus, the light on the arm of the chair, the stained glass disc of two birds on the window—nothing but what is already here

4.30.2018

31 toward the Omer
tiferet shebhod

We drive past Hartford to the Merritt Parkway, which I have decided is the Narwhal Walkway. We learn that 15% of female narwhals have tusks. That’s us! I say. That’s us!

5.1.2018

32 toward the Omer
netzach shebhod

In the morning, I gather in the morning, breathe it out again. Particles connect with light, seem to disappear, connect with light. The little dog, teething, bites the hem of my dress.

5.2.2018

33 toward the Omer
hod shebhod

The friend turned
housemate moves
around finding a
place for their
chimes—which is
how I know that they
are moving around
finding a place
for their chimes—
notes harmonious
even when clanging

5.2.2018

34 toward the Omer
yesod shebhod

I stand in front of the tomatoes. Those look great, he says from over my shoulder, and reaches to get some too. I thought at first that you might be a plant, I say,

as if people are hired by the coop to talk up the produce, and as if he would have been one. We come across each other again among the bulk spices, then he leaves.

I notice a sheet of paper on the ledge, an intricate grocery list, and think it is probably his. I wait to go after him. I take long enough that I am still there

when he comes back for it. We see each other two more times. It’s just one of those days, I feel compelled to say to him, though I don’t quite know what I mean.

5.7.2018

35 toward the Omer
malkhut shebhod

I show up at shul to find that shul is over then start walking to the parade to find people along the way who tell me the parade is over then walk to the fairground

to find that all is well there. I borrow sunscreen and share my ziplocks of pita and cubed watermelon and cubed kugel. My socks do not quite match the rainbow, but they are close enough.

5.7.2018

36 toward the Omer
chesed shebyesod

I did not expect this room of young adults in a nest of blankets and pillows who lean against each other and hold hands while laughing and crying and yawning, but here we are, thank God.

5.7.2018

37 toward the Omer
gevurah shebyesod

Things that I learned were always in me to do: one—parade down the sidewalk flying a kite made of printer paper and wrapping paper; two—say glitter to the front door every time I go through

5.7.2018

38 toward the Omer
tiferet shebyesod

Here in this rocking chair on the back porch, I sense freedom and fear it. I hear me ask myself, Who is it that is afraid? The wind says, Don’t worry, you won’t go anywhere we haven’t gone.

5.8.2018

39 toward the Omer
netzach shebyesod

The five-year-old fairy calls out to the teenager across the street whose cat was hit by a car last week: You’re a fairy! No, he says, I have homework. You’re a fairy who does homework! she says.

5.9.2018

40 toward the Omer
hod shebyesod

Even—especially—as the foundation of the world shakes and yawns open: when the five-year-old putting on a play for you and your housemates on the front porch instructs you to close your eyes, you close your eyes.

5.15.2018

41 toward the Omer
yesod shebyesod

The hyacinth has been slumped, heavy with its wilted flowers, for some time now, and it’s only after we move that I realize the stem has broken. I give leave to compost it all. Oh, hyacinth, if I had only understood.

5.15.2018

42 toward the Omer
malkhut shebyesod

Anyone want to lead Psukei dZimra? she asks, and I do, so I do. How good to praise God, to face forward and trust that the others are still there, to prepare for those who don’t even know it—and know it.

5.16.2018

42 toward the Omer #2
malkhut shebyesod

The most
honest way
to speak about
a bris, to get to the
heart of it, is to start
with the faces of those
who are watching, the
ones who seem to
have started it all
who from now on
are watching

5.16.2018

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.

5.16.2018

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

5.16.2018

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.

5.16.2018

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.

5.16.2018

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.

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.

5.17.2018

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.

5.17.2018

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.

5.17.2018

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

5.18.2018

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)

5.18.2018