(well, image by ddzphoto, on Pixabay)
Pilgrimage
She plods beyond
the four pullets
in the frig.
Her path to knowing
must be here
in the brilliant cold
where an old carrot
shivers contemplating
the huddled grapes.
_________________
The New Moon
Out the window,
where your head is,
you look for the new moon
you left in one of God’s
dog-eared books,
maybe Exodus or Leviticus.
My head joins your head
in the darkness.
The night has the clarity
of stacked deserts.
Stars hide behind trees.
Tree barks yellow behind fig leaves.
Our heads, luminous grottos of mulch,
ripen with forgetting.
We have forgotten everything so completely
we are serene as caves.
We leave no space
for anything new
to appear,
as if it never was.
_______________
Sisters
They pass their mother
back and forth
across the Formica table.
The younger sister says,
She held us together.
The older sister drops
what was held
and vanishes
with the ease of a sparrow.
__________________
Blessing the Crumbs
Gathering the crumbs to her
she separates one from the other
like she’s been separated.
The wheel that sprung
laughter from the well
fled with the topsoil.
Wisdom says,
It left behind what it took.
She says no to that.
She blesses the crumbs.
One must know her name.
__________________
Robert Hirschfield’s poems have appeared in Salamander, Mudfish, European Judaism, The Moth (Ireland), Noon (Japan), Ink Sweat and Tears (UK) and other publications.