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.