Family tree

In front of the Jewish Synagogue in Budapest
It stands erect,
only its branches weep.
Broad they emerge from its trunk,
their tips chopped, yet the leaves,
a silver waterfall, cascades to the ground.
Where its foot touches the earth,
no roots are stretched out.
And if you dig the soil you will find
none underground.
Tree without roots,
Its metallic leaves shimmering in the sun,
Granting eternal life to those who are gone,
will never change colors, wither or die.

In front of the Jewish Synagogue in Budapest,
Under the tree of life,
I search for the leaves that are mine.
Aching to reassemble, uncles and aunts,
 young kids and babies alike.
Did I hear their names, whispered,
in the murmur of the wind .
  streams of silver, evoking dancing lights,

and the rasp of metal, touching metal.

Black and white in colors

In my blue shorts,

dancing curls around my face,

heavy, dust covered glasses, help

the world look sharper.

A horse drawn wagon,

A mountain of cut grass,

covered by a heap of kids.

My cousins and I,

 stretched all over,

freeing fluid streams,

 of overflowing  green, strands.

We struggle to stay on top,

 holding to each other,

exploding with pleasure.

Seven of us up there,

 all ages all sizes.

The warm sun

 stir up aromas,

of fragrant pasture,

horse sweat,

 and cows’ manure.

The horse moves restlessly,

raises clouds of gold specks.

A black and white old picture,

sizzling with colors,

Bursting with joy.

 

http://morningbrayfarm.com/2014/02/21/the-promise-of-things-to-come/

The promise of things to come

Pent-up anticipation in the still air,

swollen gray sky, hold my breath,

and they come, first one, then many,

dancing their way down, down,

 soft feathers from a torn puffed blanket.

 In the backyard, oak trees, dark silent giants,

 soon to be wrapped in a white cloud.

I marvel at the promise of things to come,

moment before the rising sun fills up the sky,

silky tones of pink and orange, sooth my heart.

Faint marking of a trail leading to a cliff,

 falling into the ocean abyss,

Forlorn fog- horn before the lighthouse is seen,

 riding up on a cliff.

Spring buds, their soft hues, unimposing,

slushy, earth with merely a promise of flowers,

 in the tiny green sprouts,

soon will explode into lush green, spectacular extravaganza,

The promise of things, the sweet pain of anticipation,

first smile, first word, first love,

my daughters, young women, now wives.

The puzzled look on the face of my grandchild celebrating,

old as time victory of her first step,

unstoppable, ready to take on the world.

I strive to slow time, the days that hurry one by one,

               to hold on to this beauty before it is gone.

the exhilarating, unbearable anticipation,

 so painful, so sweet.