38-41 toward the Omer

tiferet shebyesod-yesod shebyesod

38. I wake up early, and I would sleep more, but it’s already late, and there are vanishingly few miles to go. I hear the pulsing of the Coke factory from bed. I also hear, thank God, the birds.

39. I’ll have to learn the songs, who is connected to what. Seems, at least in this way, that the Front Range became more familiar than home. Though it is in naming the unfamiliar that the need for names comes.

40. Has your name changed? God asks. Aren’t you the one who tells me? I say. God is patient, which feels, for once, exceedingly patronizing. Aren’t I the one waiting? I say. What for? God says. I almost answer, then relent.

41. It’s tiring to catch up to oneself, especially when time zones are involved and when oneself needs to be created along the way. I try to speak through the Doppler compression. The vacuum-sealed bags break open, and the clothes, released, breathe.

37 toward the Omer

gevurah shebyesod

The sun is setting, and it is time for me to move on, but not before this. The pasta boils slowly. I give away half of the giveaway rhubarb, drink tepid tea. Close my eyes. Open them.

25-36 toward the Omer

netzach shebnetzach-chesed shebyesod

25. One plane leads to another, and I end up in Brigadoon, or something like it, two hours ahead of six and a half hours later.

26. I get my nails done with my grandmother, but we are back to back, so we don’t talk much. I keep running my thumbs over them.

27. Smoother than usual. Buffed down, enhanced. They won’t start chipping for a week and a half. She sloughed away the callous on the ball of my foot,

28. which was propped up to face her, the heel unseen. On Shabbat, I walk a loop, walk again the other way, swim some laps in an infinity pool.

29. The way back can be easy, and it can be hard, and it’s never quite back. There’s only a week and a half until it’s time to go home,

30. the other one, where I won’t arrive to leave a week and a half later. The week is full of humility and splendor and a lag that I notice, consider,

31. perpetuate. When I don’t cut through, nothing is finished, and nothing is started, and maybe I would rather have the little deaths, if I can find them, than this floating immortality.

32. Missed, the circle edge of dead skin from the old blister from my right shoe keeps me an imperfect house among imperfect houses, as though I needed the reminder. Maybe I did.

33. Exposed, I test myself daily, mask indoors, live outside, sleep separate, shower when nobody is around. A bear scratches itself against the wooden bench, paws at the tire swing before the snows come.

34. The trees are vulnerable, hands open to the sun. The burden is caught and is heavy. They will wait as they can for change. I am freed from space by a negative, return, wonder

35. if there are eggs still in nests and if the birds have what to do. First there are white mountains, then there are green mountains, then they’re white. When you act, you won’t always get

36. as far as you’d hoped, God says, or even thought necessary. But will it be enough? I say. Do you think you can incomplete the heavens and the earth? God says. I raise my eyes, see.

24 toward the Omer

tiferet shebnetzach

How did the equilibrium line get set, where creating the space for unburdening requires overburdening first? The larger the fall, the bigger the lift.

23 toward the Omer

gevurah shebnetzach

I catch up to myself in one way, leave the other part hanging. The train on the dress halfway bustled, I bustle about.

Where’s your entourage? God says. The little birds are too busy singing, I say, to hold my train. Ah, yes, God says, it’s

that time of year. And I do not want any poisoned apples, I say. No, God says, they don’t carry those at Lucky’s. 

22 toward the Omer

chesed shebnetzach

It was months ago that I told the Friends that I looked forward to coming back, but today, once more, is not

the day. We walk up Sanitas, all nine of us, climb back down, get lunch. She somehow doesn’t know after seven years

that I don’t like vinegar and sea salt potato chips, always thought I’d just been generous to give her the whole bag.

There’s some more time to figure such things out, and for now, my barbecue style is one dollar and a few cents

before the tip. I have a child on my leg, another in my arms, oh so briefly. And so we turn again.

21 toward the Omer

malkhut shebtiferet

We say no to far away and find the yes to here. I make it up the hills without shifting gears.

Close to the rest of the herd, but somehow outside the fence, a cow stands and waits for change to come.

The prairie dogs watch from their mounds, except for those underground, those not looking, and the one dead on the road.

I bleed through, and my pad chafes, but the sun is setting, so we ride, find balance, do what’s gloriously possible.

20 toward the Omer

yesod shebtiferet

Another day, another accidental bonk on the head. I return clothes, return home. Call me anything except late to dinner,

but I will still need to call myself on time. Hineini. Where is that? In this moment? In this moment?

19 toward the Omer

hod shebtiferet

Today, the sun is back. My mood tilts toward something okay. My notes tilt toward done. My poems, however,

tilt in the other direction. You’re going balls to the walls, God says, but where is your limiting cylinder?

18 toward the Omer

netzach shebtiferet

The cat jumps up on the couch—if only it were the one I’m on—and settles in.

Alas, I will have to find a different path to what I want. The rain keeps falling today,

restorative, strange. The crew hired by the group who own the creek running through our backyard never showed

for their annual visit to redig the bed, cut away the red willow roots, leave drying dirt clods

by the banks. Anger comes and passes. Numbers rise and fall as we watch and try to count.

I put on the suit jacket, unbutton it, button it up, take it off, fold it back up.

First there is Northampton, then there is a mountain, then there isn’t. Cups collect on all flat surfaces.

Old checks go into manila folders. Exhaustion accumulates, then overflows. We hold hands to find the harmony again.

17 toward the Omer

tiferet shebtiferet

And there was evening, and there was morning: a new period. I look ahead: wedding day, luteal—

honeymoon, follicular. Gotta lose one to win the other, I guess. And today? How about today? Well,

four intakes bookending Saturday Night Live, leftovers, and popcorn. I couldn’t sleep last night—that chocolate cookie—

until I could, and when I did, I dreamed of helping a squid back into the ocean.

That’s seventeen words, I say. It is, God says. Must be done, I say. Sure, God says,

or you could go on. What would it take to tip the balance? Ask the Supreme Court,

I say. Or rather, don’t. God says, Didn’t I tell you—everything in moderation except for moderates?

Is that how that line goes? I say. Depends on who’s asking, God says, and for what.

16 toward the Omer

gevurah shebtiferet

I make a rhubarb crisp, hide it to surprise my love, who brings home surprise cookies.

15 toward the Omer

chesed shebtiferet

I lift the soapy rope on two marshmallow-roasting sticks, let the wind blow the bubbles.

14 toward the Omer

malkhut shebgevurah

There is no waiting. This book, this concrete step, and my default mode network

wander together gently under the warm sun. The cat stalks. Breath rises. Manna falls.

13 toward the Omer

yesod shebgevurah

The cat is waiting to come in, and I say, Are you sure? 

12 toward the Omer

hod shebgevurah

I head out back to write either progress notes or a poem—

might as well be under the sun—but here are three people

who invite me over, and I go sit with them, my computer

upside-down in my lap. As we talk about a holy without acquisition,

I wonder, What is the next choice I don’t know I’ll have?

11 toward the Omer

netzach shebgevurah

The goats next door run to the fence to greet me

in my pajamas and the six apple cores in this bowl.

Some things are hard to chew, but it seems to depend

in part on how they are oriented when you eat them,

or, rather, on how you orient yourself to them, though sometimes

there’s a fence restricting movement and you don’t have any choice

over the method, let alone the matter. My bike is grimy

but functional. I go get groceries, go home, go back again

for the rest of the load, pass the same construction crew.

Coasting downhill, I watch the wheels meet the road and turn—

so many circles proving equal to a line without an end.

10 toward the Omer

I don’t know from Colorado spiders, but this large one

that’s been at the bottom of the bathtub some hours

can’t bite me anyway through a plastic cup or cardstock.

It skitters around, unaware, I think, that these walls lead

to where it wants to be. My housemate slides open

the back screen door for our processional to the grass.

I release it, hope, belatedly, that the birds won’t notice.

9 toward the Omer

in continued memory of Sylvia Greenfield Moses, zichrona livracha

gevurah shebgevurah

A full day, and the hands come out empty,

but palms up, open, is the start of willingness,

Linehan teaches in the name of Thich Nhat Hanh.

The room’s four walls allow me to uncurl myself

from my willfulness, to explore what might be here

if something else is taking care of the holding.

A man is hungry. I buy him soup, hide

the cookie I buy for myself in my coat

so he won’t see it when I walk out

of the deli, forget about it until I unzip

my left chest pocket to put my mask away.

I don’t even think to sit and eat together.

Fists, God says, are made to create a connection

and a separation at the same time. Oh, I say,

is that why you outstretched your fingers in Egypt?

Anything I touch, God says, I must feel too.

8 toward the Omer

chesed shebgevurah

The tarot card asks: Is the High Priestess

calling you to account, or are you she?

I fear the answer, do not want it

watching me as I go about my days,

and yet. What is the use in hiding

from what exists in both seen and unseen,

who knows all the places I could run?

I break away from the fabric of life

and there’s not even the sound of tearing—

as soon as I turn my back there’s

nothing to see or hear but my howls

gaudily draped in the shrouds of what isn’t.

Enough of this. There is no more time

than what there is, and that too short.

The owl looks out from over our bed

and gives no hints—but I need none.

7 toward the Omer

malkhut shebchesed

Coming to a new way takes time

but happens—and how good it is

to loosen the “I” and find “let’s”!

6 toward the Omer

yesod shebchesed

On a day of crossing through,

I’ll entrust my soul to you.

For now, we lay the foundation,

solid in the ground, simple, sweet.

We take a breath. I run

to the lake where a toddler,

small reed raft in one hand,

plays in the shallows, her father

skipping stones that are too round,

her mom watching. I look out,

feel into what it would take

to get to the other side.

5 toward the Omer

hod shebchesed

I call through the window
to my housemate as he
tunes his guitar in the
kirtan circle in the backyard,

Is it okay to join
you all if I finish
what I’m doing in time?
It’s okay if it’s private…

You just need to pull
up a chair, one says.
With a spirit of open-mindedness,
another one adds. I nod,

say of course, slide shut
the window, and start writing.
What changes when a household
is created? When will the

credit card company get it
that I can be elsewhere
and here all at once?
Why shouldn’t I look like

a waiter at my wedding?
Is this just the sound
of a red-winged blackbird or
also the sound of another?

Would you come hear it?
How can my ears stop
ringing, the hairs unstick from
the positions they have taken?

Whose choices do I make?
I bite my tongue again,
softer this time, feel love
for my jaw, which is

newly loose, free to move,
and obviously still learning its
way through the many options.
Oh, the limits of knowledge

on this day, the excitement

on this day, the blessing

of our big messy body

singing out of tune—together!—

on this very blessed day.

4 toward the Omer

netzach shebchesed

I tell my brother

about my backlog of

notes, agree there is

no such thing, though

with only one part

to my stomach it’s

easy to forget how

good it tastes to

see past as future,

to make regrets—or

is it myself?—something

“shiny and new, like

a virgin, touched for

the very first time”

The sounds of wind,

of cars, of birds,

of the screen door

rolling back and forth

on its track, surely,

they must be enough

to move me along.

Along with my breath,

which perhaps gives the

most true linear reinforcement.

I jog home with

oranges in my hands,

avocados in my purse,

a friend in Washington.

3 toward the Omer

tiferet shebchesed

Seventy-five degrees outside:
willow leaves unfurling
upward, trees unweeping,

the water-on-pebbles sound
of brown-headed cowbirds,

black-billed magpies freed
from their mythologies
by being uncountable

2 toward the Omer

gevurah shebchesed

The waves
would continue
forming and
going past,
but this
one I
will ride
to shore—
not only
since I
won’t last
forever—and
not just
to live—

1 toward the Omer

chesed shebchesed

No

baby

Moses

between

coals

and

glory,

I

bite

my

tongue

eating

the

maror

charoset

sandwich

My

love

asks

if

I’m

okay,

hears

the

silent

answer,

comes

with

me

to

look

where

I

can’t

until

I

can

Pre-Pesach poem 5782: Biur

The little flags beyond the stream

show, he says, where they think

it all started.

Areas of interest.

God, do I make a blessing

over the smell of burned trees?

The faded Holi colors

of airdropped retardant

mark these bushes saved—

the greenest grass,

past the winter straw,

is where only new remains.

Spring, like liberation,

like fire, begins slow,

and then it comes fast,

if it catches, if the winds blow.

Gotta have our bags packed.

I feed the last girl scout cookies

to the goats, cut my hair on the porch.