On The Full Moon of Sivan

  Once there was a sage. Before his death he called his sons and family and left them a will: that they should water fruit trees.

     From a story by Reb Nachmun, The Son's Trip to Leipzig and Ambush by Robbers

 

I have grown up

even though

that same young woman

still sometimes

takes the steering wheel

when a hard rain

turns the road to mud

and she comes to that old

standstill. 

 

I have grown down rooted

into the crone

the one who knows how 

to negotiate

the storm and fog

steady though not towering

amidst the other

elder-ing trees

I share the limited

light with.  

 

This morning I drink birdsong

an elixir steeped and distilled,

settling into the long view,

letting despair evaporate

into expanse and pregnant cloud 

and return home to sea roses

which again have bloomed

this distance from the sea

 

and so I remember

the first words

before language

before forgetting 

was born through me:  

water the fruit trees, 

you who are the tree, the fruit

the water, the thirst.