Jewish New Year opens the door 
to winter, ruddy-cheeked and beckoning, 
baskets of apples, jars of honey overflowing,  
the scent of cinnamon, challah proofing  
in the oven. These times have seemed  
a prelude to the end, but it’s the promise  
of continuing that draws me. The sky’s 
an angry orange, ancient redwoods 
hollowed out like reeds, playing a mournful  
tune. The climate’s come unhinged—record  
heat followed by winter storms. Fire raises  
winds and clouds that can be seen from space.  
Yet for now, life continues, insistent as a root,  
the New Year crowned with a braided wreath  
of challah, reminding me that seasons cycle,  
returning every year. Already, leaves begin to fall,  
seedpods fatten, the morning’s darker every day.  
Soon, rains will hammer on the roof, the smell  
of eucalyptus rising from the earth. A pot of lentil  
soup will simmer on the stove. Armies of flames  
will stop advancing across the treeline. Before  
they start again, we’ll get another chance  
to sing old songs with new intentions. 
                        

For Mickey Loeb

In 2014, you were 85; I couldn’t wait much longer 
to visit your small house in Southern Israel.  
Yet you persisted, as a stubborn desert shrub  
might, storing water in its taproot, deep beneath  
the ground. I spent two weeks watching you  
take care of everyone, driving neighbors  
to the doctor, to the store, visiting the sick.  
In return, they filled your kitchen with their  
home-cooked meals, called you daily to be sure  
that you were well.  On the last night of my visit.  
I fixed dinner, enough to feed you for a week.  
A pot of cherry rice steamed on the burner,  
and on the soft earth underneath the orange tree,  
cats from everywhere converged at the screen door.  
They heard the can opener perform its solo.  
You called to them by name, dishing out  
their food, offering a bowl to the shy hedgehog  
at the far end of the yard. A crescent moon  
hung overhead like a single sock on the clothesline  
as the washing machine began its liquid chant  
and the birds assembled for the evening performance.