malkhut shebchesed
How lucky I am to have stood
long enough in the hallway at shul
after having biked back to maybe meet
with people who would want to talk--
looking at the English and Hebrew names
on the yahrzeit board--for her to
come out of the bathroom, this poet
who stops the part of our walk
where we're going in the same direction
to exclaim over the yellow daffodils rambunctious
through cracks in the asphalt and concrete,
who sees a stranded leaf, picks it up,
says she thinks of them as orphans,
returns it to what could be home
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