Photo by Edward Cohen.

A thin mix of dry grass and sand
patiently shuffles and rearranges
as thirty young persons
lay down in the desert at midnight,

Commands for meditation
from retired IDF sergeants
with the grace and order
of coach bus seats,

I float on the desert horizon as
a trace of this history.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

For old buildings
sitting on sidewalks
lived in by
many morphing infestings
of all shapes,
with stale knishes
babbling sharply while clunking
like overstuffed luggage
everyday
up and down, up and down,

A doldrums routine
– yet
those times past were
not so different from now,
space, roof and pipes,

Still
the breaths of so many
in such a small space
have weighed on their frames.

In modest thrill she gathers together
some small slips of fabric
relieved though surprised
that we’d ever have need
for some old strips of leftover cloth,
some rich black and gold while
also those muted with wrinkled rings of burgundy,
sheets that once wrapped spring’s blossom
with discipline in gowns flowing.

No one sees the young man trudging
through the uneven muck
counting past seven trees,
searching the ground for those
unbelievable words that, they say, form a name.

Memories, notebooks
all will decay,
fragile and stale
as castles at the ocean’s edge,

yet have faith!
You have kept it alive,

in another time,
place,
I will hear your whisper
as it echoes.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

Photo by Edward Cohen.