Onward

is the choice
to fill the void
under the void

Varicose

A month ago I
noticed them, the
faint purple tendrils,

the tentative search
for new paths forward,

the first breakdowns
in my oh so vital walls

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)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.