(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.