See full size imageThey were everywhere along the journey. Braiding water in Goshen, Virginia before the sunrise and again in the afternoon, Peg on her rock outpost, taking pictures from the shore. Under the dense cover


of trees, down from the road where traffic only occasionally passed, we read poems and wrote them and smiled into the sun.

My fingers over the cool wall in Jerusalem, believing it held secrets in its veins. Little papers folded to flutter down from the cracks to the ground, swept up by a scarf-wearing old woman at the end of each day. We always wondered who hefted the stones to the Temple Mount, who lifted them and how.


Yesterday, Asher dug through the front yard in search of dinosaur bones. As dusk approached, he ran in his light-up boots to the front door to call into the house, “Mommy! Come quick! I found a dinosaur tooth.”

The little soil-drenched nub in his hand – who knows what it was? But he believed it held secrets to some untold story. I said, “Wow, it’s not very big.” And he said, “Maybe it was a plant-eating dinosaur.”

I’ve always believed in fate, relied on my sixth sense and at the end of the day known I can do only what I try very hard to do.

    Last night I made eggplant with mascarpone cheese and thin leaves of spinach. There were noodles and I took the broccolini from the night prior and chopped it into something new. The poetry is in the stroke of a hand, in the melange of flavors, on my kitchen table, in my children’s faces.


To be cocked like a rifle, a hand
on your gun, to walk
a tight, hard line, even when
your cheeks have filled with dust,
and your flesh is falling off, and your eyes
can no longer focus on the target.

They say that a cocked gun
is bound to go off. Well, it isn’t.
Anything can happen in the Land of Israel.
A broken firing pin, a rusty spring,

or an unexpectedly canceled order,

as was the case with Abraham on Mount Moriah.
— Aryeh Sivan

It’s all a metaphor you know. Every single moment.


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