Waiting for my teacher under a tree

I roll a blade of grass between two fingers. Where is the angel now? I say. You are, God says. I bend over. Everything grows.

49 toward the Omer

I seem to avoid taking the final step because then the only direction to move in is down though I could perch instead with arms round knees eyes open refusing to look there is no way to know the view from the peak before you reach it is there

the view is the others I stopped climbing midway through they are not left behind they are just as here they wait for me even as I say no, no, I am not ready then there is no now if when my back aches from their rocky tops digging