Between Capernaum and Safad
Tall purple candles in the hills
north of the Sea of Galilee—thistle—
my Canadian friend, whose husband worked
in the garment industry—tells me, was used
to brush lint from fabric. To buy a dry
thistle (in Toronto) expensive, she said.
And I wonder if the plant were gathered here,
how many dead would it cost to make clean
new raiment? Would the ancient, holy mystics
have bled that royal color into their lives or
could they have found a way around these hills
attaining the greater heights they sought.
How long have we fought, we good people of
The Book—to find and keep our home.
When shall the shining clothes be ours,
free of debris?
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Is There a Way?
From the carob tree carob seed
used to weigh gold. Carat
our measure. Jerusalem city
of gold. How do we scan its
brilliance gauge its morning
and evening light? The energy
paths of its inhabitants?
The pomegranate spills its seed
all over our clothes seals them
crimson. Hearts
flow red too. Can we mend
the bleeding? My friend’s wise
mother said “ You should only
eat pomegranates when you are
naked.” How many ways
are there to be naked?
***
To Be Here, My Joy
To breathe this sun-filled air—unannounced
to parents (as neither Messiah, scorpion,
nor husband, as folk view of Talmud describes)
I appeared—a gift—as are we all.
My right to home, though means were absent,
clear. I wandered near and distant shores
till miracle—the sea wove for me
a many colored coat from out its gentle
spectral mists. Wearing it proudly
I traveled here. And now, olive trees
and grapes abound from your good
works. The desert blooms, indeed.
Safely the sweet tents shall be lit. And
safely, safely I deserve, as do we all,
to sleep and wake, love and work
and dance in peace.
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