Full moon, gold orb rising falling
flanks our shrinking night.
The plague sinks into the lungs
of all the frail people.
On Esther’s fast day I make calls
to end torture, then rake winter leaf layers
heaped last fall over flower beds
to expose the blooming snow drops.
The blood root pushes first blunt
pink finger-tips into the light.
Will I live through this ordeal?
Can we love our way through it? Will any?
Many? Of our loved ones sicken? Die?
A squirrel, killed on the road yesterday,
lies flat on its back, mounted by a crow,
midnight feet planted on its belly.
Crow’s strong beak bobbing breaks
through to eyeball, brain, innards.
Each disaster supplies
some other wanting’s feast.
4) In Your Image (B’tselem)
Yes we have silence in us and violence too.
Yes we have enough emptiness to fill
Is this fear-full disease Your way to call us
back to You? Back
to each other? By forcing us apart?