I go through weeks like I do sheets of paper, or hair ties, or poems. 

I use them all up but I can't remember what I wrote. 

Years are like that too. Someone asks what I did last Monday 

The East Wind is a rabbi in a darkened shul. He sits pored over the Torah scroll long into the night, his back bent like a cane. People come and go and come again, whispering prayers for the needy, the hungry, the sick.

my walk home.

the 4 p.m. sunset already lighting the shamash on the horizon,

melting the mountains like orange wax.

lunch with my friends, onion rings & coconut yogurt