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Elul (recording)
00:00 / 02:20

(Originally published in

Fall 2020-Winter 2021.)

Elul

 

Even in the wrong season,

the ground must be turned.

 

Even if I've made a late start,

even in the day's heat and congestion,

even in my more-than-perennial distraction,

the ground must be turned.

 

The crows have taken shelter

wherever crows take shelter,

chameleons scuttle away

at the absolute last moment,

tiny grass snakes stretch themselves

full length in the leaf litter,

and the leaf litter itself

does not stir.

 

The ground breaks iron tools.

Weeds suck uselessly

at its paps, and tears

roll uselessly away.

 

Here are the tracks

they make in the dust,

a thin dark line at first

then a fossil groove

shallow but unmistakable.

 

In this late season, the ground

becomes a reliquary

of tiny marks, to be read blind,

with fingertips,

the way a cheek, yours, is caressed

in old age.

 

My hands know

the language of each

fold and furrow,

rehearse the ancients tracks

over hard-baked ground

then

turn skyward.

B'sha-ah tova,

the old women say. The rain

will come "in a good hour."

Even now

in this late season

(say it!) the ground holds so much

and must be turned.

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