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Walking to Shul
I hold my grandson’s hand as my father held mine, palm to palm with the warmth of life in the fingertips of reassurance, each step a question or pointing “look” - Oh how many whys a day beholds trucks and cats, jackets and trees - time flickers, and I think of all the prayers, word searches for the soul, I have struggled to solve, and here in the gentle grip of trust the answer flowers in the here I am the impulse overflow that stills the thought. How simple when my father’s shadow walks in his namesake’s joy and I in ghost-mind walk as zaydes walk on Friday nights, when heaven and earth have come to rest and angel songs are all that’s left, and blessings for each step. |
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Night Songs - by David YB Kaufmann
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The wicker chair on the porch, the open screen:
The air at 3 AM smells slightly strange - stickly, sweet and stale, vanilla tinged - I'd say honeysuckle but I've never met one - and its song between the day seems unsure Which note to carry, stillness or whispers Of the other time. Across the street, voices With a beer tinged lilt talk of mysteries Immature and dreams deeply felt, vaguely Seen. They drift into the hum of silence, reminiscing youth of a future not yet lived. The birds skitter with the stars, twinkling tunes in echo light - a tweaking of the dawn that’s yet to come in the hours I hope to sleep - the mind needs calm exhaustion, but mine has thoughts of a thousand ifs aswirl in the multiverse of night. |
The Last Red Leaf of Winter
by David YB Kaufmann
The last red leaf of winter
sidewalk stilled before a blower, or winds of snow, sweep it down the street of frost and fear
flutters as my feet approach,
as if to move aside,
for it has seen,
I suppose,
so many leaves of orange, green and brown,
crushed beneath a heel that careless treads or takes perverse delight
what though the leaf has fallen from its tree,
there is still the chlorophyll within and beauty in the colors of our age - I raise my collar against the sudden breeze, lower my hat, and think of warmth and ease then look in memory for the last red leaf and wonder how I saw it,
in joy or grief.
The last red leaf of winter
sidewalk stilled before a blower, or winds of snow, sweep it down the street of frost and fear
flutters as my feet approach,
as if to move aside,
for it has seen,
I suppose,
so many leaves of orange, green and brown,
crushed beneath a heel that careless treads or takes perverse delight
what though the leaf has fallen from its tree,
there is still the chlorophyll within and beauty in the colors of our age - I raise my collar against the sudden breeze, lower my hat, and think of warmth and ease then look in memory for the last red leaf and wonder how I saw it,
in joy or grief.
