The weeping willow shimmers, the water droplets gleaming in her sunlit hair.

A dryad floats above her, in the air.

They unify, becoming one.

In Summer, the Willow cries with joy, enjoying the sun.

The dryad smiles, whispering to no one.

In Autumn, the Willow changes, becoming like fire.
The dryad too, both much admired.

In Winter, the dryad dreams, sorrowful and cold.

The tree itself is sobbing as it grows old.

Come spring, they are alight with flowers,

Like brides before wedding showers.

And when the willow dies,

The dryad keens,

For none was as cherished

As the dear willow queen.

I reside in a foreign land, 
An unfamiliar place 
Where I left all familiarity behind. 

I keep running, 
But my past moves faster 
Than I ever could. 

No matter how far I go, 
Across every sea, 
Through every nation, 
It follows. 

Faithful and unforgiving, 
Like a shadow 
Even on its brightest day. 

Dear Anthony Bourdain 

somewhere between the time you died and the time you lived 

i found a part of myself in the words you spoke 

this morning as i walked ever so slowly 

i caught myself thinking about you 

how you would describe the current state of the world. 

turned into some analogy from long ago that only 

i would know or so it somehow feels. 

since you’ve been gone i’ve managed to find the 

spectacular in the mundane life i live, 

and deep down i truly think that would’ve made you proud. 

i grew up in the city you once loved so dearly, 

i’ve walked the same streets as you 

and i’ve marveled at the ever clear blue sky–

sometimes at night when i walk the streets of our city 

i wonder if you’ve become part of the stars in the night sky 

watching over the world you once cherished and held close. 

throughout the years we as a society tend to forget those who have left, 

i hope somehow we will never forget you–

and the life you led, and the people you’ve inspired and changed–

for all that is to come– i hope we remember you for a long long time. 

He can see kids glowing in the kitchen, 
Hands sticky with sweet gossip, 

Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he, 
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on, 

Screaming for them to let him in, 
Let him sit with them one more time, 

Let him hear one more secret. 
And he cries: 

He cries all over his salty, bitter skin,
Because tears are the only things left

That taste like sugar.

From the moment you are born you enter into a world outside of all that is safe and cozy. Thrust upon lands. Joining a world of thought known only when you are at peace with your being. You cry loud enough that the world hears and is touched knowing that another heartbeat has joined an unbreakable bond. Delicate strings tied together. Some are new and clean while some are old and frail. But they hold on even as they fall. Only when you see beyond yourself and beyond your small corner of the world can you see those strings. Those strings are wet from tears, the pain hits them like a wave of fire, burnt. Strings that are thicker and stronger from the rest are holding the falling and fading. When we all find peace and let go of our egos and hatred we can all become one rope. 

“Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw / With ravine, shriek’d against / his creed—” - Lord Alfred Tennyson

Yes, you are a Man!

You, sir, are no beast, so

Beat your chest, glistening with medals of valor

Sharpen your stick to fend back savagery

Laud your crumbling society, the zenith of life

Battle your pitiful contest, display your glory

Prove your honor in violence and war

Conquer the world, 

Yes!

Be the Man!

What do you hope to do before you die?

Love

I hope to love

I hope to love so thoroughly 

So constantly 

So deeply

It feels like breathing 

I hope to love so continuously 

So contagiously

So vigorously 

It feels excruciating 

I hope to love so enthusiastically 

So intensely 

So incredibly 

It feels impossible 

I hope to love in a way that doesn’t feel fleeting

Or delicate

In a way that envelops me so wholly

I can’t imagine living without it

Live

I hope to live

I hope to live without regrets

In a way that I won't look back on morosely 

In a way that I won't wish for more time

Because i’ll have lived 

Really lived

I’ll have traveled

And eaten

And built relationships 

I’ll have lived in a way 

So that when I look into a mirror

I’ll see lines creased into my face

Lines from times where my cheeks

Burned from smiling

And my ribs ached from laughing 

Because to live

To really live 

Is to live with others

To live without regrets

To live is to love 

To live is to not live perfectly 

It is to make mistakes

And grow

And learn

It is to feel

To cry

And to laugh

To scream

And shout

And ruin yourself

Just to fix it again

To live is to not be afraid

It is to allow yourself to do the wrong thing

It is to apologize 

But not too much 

It is to realize you aren’t inordinate 

Or insignificant 

And to let things go

It is to share your opinion 

And listen to others’

To not be unyielding in yours 

But not to change to please

It is to get to a place

That no matter how much you 

Mismanaged 

You wouldn’t go back and fix it

It is to get to a place

That no matter how many times you misspoke

You wouldn’t go back and apologize 

It is to know you asked for forgiveness 

Not permission 

Or you didn’t ask at all

It is a joyous day 

amidst a burdened world.

We cluster around stand mixers like crows

to telephone wire, make holy messes

of flour & floor. There are countless stories

being told.

It is a joyous day. Outside the window, squirrels

play-fight by the bird feeder & scramble up the pole

just to prove they can. In Baltimore someone I know chants Megillah

and tears open the story of a whole people 

yet again, for its renewal. It is a joyous

       day and we go walking

in the bright afternoon, laden with freshly baked hamentaschen.

I run to mailbox after mailbox & deliver poppy-seeded joy.

*Megillah is a part of the Talmud (Jewish book of scholarly debates & discussions about Torah) that talks about the laws and traditions of Purim, a Jewish holiday celebrating Queen Esther's triumph over evil Haman. (That's why we eat hamentaschen, which are little triangular cookies filled with yummy stuff :P)