The two of them sit on the porch

basking in the sunlight

letting their toes explore the first

frost-bitten mud of spring

Talking about life and death and sex

and little Mika's school play

and how to keep on without much pain

or fear of endings

The younger woman is a seamstress

she shucks corn into a bucket 

and loves God

and is scared 

but knows what is right

The older woman is a scientist

she reads an essay on experimental economics

and is not afraid

but curious

and would never say she knows what is right

not for sure

When the sun gilts their bodies 

just before melting beneath the shadows of the highest branches 

they turn their faces to it

one with gratitude

the other wonder

and together wish their star goodnight

before 

wiping the mud off their feet 

and swinging through the screen door 

to eat with the people they love

December already?

That's what everyone else says.

People ask us at the end 

of every year

to reflect on these last twelve months

that have changed us.

And I honestly never know

what to say.

I don't remember many of the

highs, or the lows.

I remember some of my most joyous moments,

that brought excitement and sparkling eyes,

but most of the lows,

I seem to forget.

And maybe that's a good thing,

but I want to have something to reflect on.

Sure, I could reminisce on my best days,

my happiest memories,

of 2025,

but I want to remember the things

I've overcome,

the ways I've improved myself

that will be noticeable

deep into 2026.

So back to the inevitable question

that's asked at the end of every year,

How would you reflect on this year?

I would say it was a mix

of good and bad,

like any other year.

It brought firsts,

both people and experiences,

like any other year.

But a whole reflection?

I don't think that's something I could do,

but that'd be with any year.

2025 is no different, it's just another year to me,

and it definitely wasn't my best,

but it was one step closer to

the fresh start I need

in 2026.

Tonight, stars are falling,

Over Chicago, New England, Texas,

From angry east to angry west,

Dark cars: hearses that we don't call hearses

Roll silently towards lively, warm houses,

And as they roll away,

The stars fall away,

And the sky is black

People, bright spots! 

Crowd the streets! Block the hearse! 

Populate the dark earth, so that our reflection in the night sky

Will be twice as bright as any stars ever could be. 

reminds me of crows billowing, in the middle of the day when I can see their wings

of snow and christmastime, falling bright orange or blue, covering shadows

watching it all from up high

mumbling something deep and once I thought you were a wizard

bear in the big forest and craggy franconia rock, the top of it

                 of the first few seconds before you cry, breathless choke

 numb          blush

red sweaters quiet sleeves, dawn on the shoulder of the night, 

night holding morning,

cleaning the sand off the river rock, shines in the daytime 

millions of years of dirt under nails, lavender glistening in spicy sugar

and it felt like memories of my mother

so softly smiling in kodak alaska

                                    singing in the hills

The tides still ebb

The sun still rises

The trees still grow

My curls are longer now.

We have a new president new governors

Different colors speckling made up maps

Division.

I sit with new people

At lunch

Tell new stories

Around the dinner table.

I got a new puffy coat.

But so far, 

The tides still flow

The sun still sets

The trees still wither

My hair stays curly. 

I wish I could see the world like a puzzle

with each piece

having one

rightful

place.

But there is far too much 

idealist romantic

in me 

for that to be the case.

I think

I will always see the world

like a case board

with facts

and people

and events

all interconnected

in bright red,

confusing networks

of life's string.

I wish I could see the world 

without shades of grey

but there is far too much poetry in me

for that to be the case.

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. They all want something. They flutter around him like moths to a flame. Rabbi, bless my child! Rabbi, would you come to Shabbos dinner? Rabbi, my grandmother is dying, please join the minyan! They do not all study with him at the old wooden table, groaning under the weight of a whole people, but they are all his students. That’s what his mentor said, at least, when he learned to wear the tallis and lay prostrate on the floor for hours, always left wanting more. He carved the Name into his knees that winter and still cannot speak without shuddering. The men in his congregation pray with their eyes open and wonder outside if their rabbi’s lost his mind. Their wives stay home & braid the challah for supper, kiss their own hands in praise. The synagogue is guarded by no one. The rabbi chants in a murmured fervor, believing he sees angels hovering with eyes of fiery wrath, demons leering at him from the shadows. He screams the sh’ma into the eternal twilight, covers his eyes like a child scared of the thunder outside, stands for the first time in weeks, knocks over his chair. A cavalcade of dust roils at his feet & clears to reveal a silent Gd standing in the corner, lit dimly from below. A voice belonging to no one and everyone he's ever known shakes the rafters.

חמֵֽאֱלֹהֵ֣י הָֽעַמִּ֗ים אֲשֶׁר֙ סְבִיבֹ֣תֵיכֶ֔ם הַקְּרֹבִ֣ים אֵלֶ֔יךָ א֖וֹ הָֽרְחֹקִ֣ים מִמֶּ֑ךָּ מִקְצֵ֥ה הָאָ֖רֶץ וְעַד־קְצֵ֥ה הָאָֽרֶץ:

He knows what this means - gods of the nations around you, from one end of the earth unto the other end of the earth - but he cannot remember what comes after. He spins wildly on his heel, searching for an answer, but there comes none. His yarmulke has come undone and the pins lay scattered on the floor. It is silent again and the silence tears at his soul. Morning sunlight filters through the windows. The scroll on the table waits dutifully for its master.

The East Wind sits back down in his chair.

**

shul - another word for synagogue

minyan - group of ten Jewish adults required for a lot of religious events

tallis - prayer shawl

the Name - the name of Gd

yarmulke - round head covering worn by Jews