I am drifting.

I am drifting.
The ocean washes
in and
out.
I feel my feet floundering
wave
after wave
after wave.

There is nothing to stop me
in my path,
no sand
or boards
or walk.

They're gone.

Like me.

There is nothing to grab me,
to shake me,
to wake me

because this can't be

(please
don't let it be)

real.

The skyline is dark
again tonight.

I just want to go

home.

I've been taking baby breaths,

hoping the air will revive me,
waiting for its sweet
sounds to flutter
down my windpipe
and into my 
restless core.

Churning-
acid tears lining,
acid tears blinding

and I
stumble.

Swallow.

I've been taking baby breaths,

hoping I will learn
to breathe.

Tides, Breath, In and Out

And so summer turns to fall with a taste of winter, and here I am again. The sounds are the same but the feelings are different, and I struggle with these words on my page. They're asking for my justifications. They're asking for my self. I'm not sure how to answer.

Maybe I will tell them of my dreams of dancing, of feet barefoot on sand, of flying. I'll describe the taste of passion, its saltwater sweetness, and how it trickles before it falls. I'll tell them of yearning, of mornings spent with sunrises and of evenings with sleepless dreams. I'll smile. They'll laugh. We'll live in our world of pretendings.

I want it too much.

That makes things dangerous.

That means it's going to hurt.

I've been teaching myself to face reality, but it is so easy to drift into dreams, into worlds of limitless possibilities and unindentured hope. I think you understand.

Tonight I miss the ocean. I want to go back home.

A Man, A Plan, A Canal Panama

There’s a pizzeria on the corner of Prinsengracht and Rozengracht with Chagall windows and a man who calls me gorgeous when he touches my arm and says goodnight. I wonder what else he’d say to me, a New York girl with a last name of flowers, who ordered pasta and a Long Island iced tea, without the Long Island, because that would say too much. 

I wonder what he’d tell himself, how much he’d understand, how much I’d let him know.

And now with an ocean between us and my view of the Manhattan skyline, I find myself falling back into apathy.

But with a hint of want.

Dangerous–

            like looking in mirrors when you know your perception’s cracked.

And I do.

I’m past the dock and across the canal and the reflection is distorted so it must be okay. The streets are clean until they’re filled. With people. And then with their remains. Reminders that life has been lived. Is being lived.

I want to live. 

Rest and Repose

The Sabbath day is approaching. In a couple of hours, the sun will bid farewell. The couples will walk to shul and split at the mehitza, and the Friedmans and the Carlebachs will be heard again. The streets will speak in Yeshivish and the shabbat shaloms will sound.

New York City takes a breath and smiles.

Even she can learn repose.

There is a scent in the air that seems to promise stillness. There is a scent that fills her soul with hope.

Eyelids flutter.

The musicians are painting murals as the artists stop and stare. Red. Silver. She curls into herself and uncovers color. She thinks they'll understand.

Hand takes hand and she is no longer falling. She feels worthy of being saved.

The Queen will soon reveal her presence. I bow low and accept her prayer.

Cherry Trees

Sometimes, March comes in like a lamb. You sleep, he wakes, and February returns to slumber. It's all in the subtleties- in the scent of new breeze and whisper of spring approaching, in the defrosting of crocuses as they prepare to bloom. It's in the way the men have switched from fleece to cotton and in the gentle brush of hair against cheek.

I close my eyes and breathe tranquility. I need this moment to relearn Earth's spin.

Mahar

With enough power, you can defy gravity. With enough speed, you can escape its grasp. For a weekend, you can disappear into a world of faith and security and open your eyes to life anew. You can taste the ruach and the koach, the spirit and the strength, and you can hold hands with seventy others and fill a room with sanctity.

We are not the leaders of tomorrow. We are the leaders of today.