my grandfather's well
i never met grandfather, but i can see him
close to a well in yaffa. the forehead he's wiping
is a glittering, wrinkled map of the past.
his olive-wood cane leans
against an orange tree.
i can see birds the color of earth
when it rains.
i can watch them
harvest oranges, pile them
on roofs of houses
in the refugee camp.
where have you been? grandfather asks me,
his voice getting
weary of
plowing the thick, muddy
soil of language.
my arms are down, too tired to lift
even to say hi.
i've been pulling up buckets of water
from the camp's well,
searching for words
for my epic.
my grandfather stands close to the well.
he never abandoned it, even after the nakba,
even after death.
his hands pour water
down into the well.
in the refugee camp,
where land is strewn with
debris, where air chokes with rage,
my harvest is yet to arrive,
my seeds only sprout on this page.
from forest of noise, 2024
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greg and zuzu relaxing together . . .
i put cricket and pluto away so zuzu could wander around in the living room for a little bit. she's back in the cone because the onesie chanda picked up yesterday from our veterinarian is too long for her to walk in, and the second one is a little snug. we'll put that one on again later, though.
forest of noise, from whence today's poem came . .
after breakfast with chanda, greg and i went for a walk in the afternoon . . it was a little cloudy, but spring-like and we could smell the warming soil.
daffodils and crocuses and snowdrops are popping up . .
the independent merchants were out selling their wares . . carpets, clothing, shoes, tibetan singing bowls, earrings, picture frames, beads, small stone animal statues . . .
we couldn't resist stopping for ice cream . .
black cherry chip ice cream topped with sweet cherries and sauce and hot fudge.
we still have some dirty snow piles!
zuzu in the smaller onesie.
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