is more of a creek,
covered in yellow leaves and rotting branches
that staunch the flow like a bandage over blood.
The river in the woods
probably used to rush
like its brothers farther north, shrieking
against the mossy rocks, egotistical with snow runoff.
The river in the woods
trickles quietly through the night
and the moon watches with heavy-lidded eyes
as the sticks of the trees bathe in neverending light.
Posted in response to the challenge River.
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
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