“Write a poem about your toenails.”
On the stone floor, patterns
of toes once pattered,
like dough unrolled I was a boy,
and my little toes grew up
into something I rarely feel,
and the nails grew hard
and rigid, with fringing dirt.
“about Israel and taking a lot of photos? maybe
throw in something about awesome people on a trip
going home and me being here and being sad because of
it? anything is appreciated :)”
The photos show some Israel,
but the Israel is here
in the cloth wrapped around me
and the sandy dirt in my toes
it’s in the people who came
and the ones who left.
It’s a traveler’s place,
with food ready to stir me
from my stoop to the golden sunset.
Sometimes I miss
yesterday’s smiles,
but in Israel, they come again
with the spring fruits
that touch life on the warm breeze.
“An almost-forgotten love, and a new start with a cherished girl?”
Some trees lose their way
deep underground
in the meaningless dirt.
Searching for water,
until one tendril touches,
and the water once lost
rushes through roots.
Exuberant wood racing,
and the tree can breathe.
The water fills another heart.