Already the snow is thinning out. The hand that
took its share and left undoes the hemmed up
trimmings of the one time fool.
Arid steppe his dreams, his wanderlust collapsed
in contrite pools of shame; by now he knows
all worthy things emerge from strive and pain
Through illusion’s torn membrane, the voice he hears
is laden with cadencies, with codes that only wise men
break; maybe that’s why his nerves are taut like spasms.
From those tell tale eyes you know what he wants:
his filial status back; by the periphery he thaws
to find the bearings of his old downtrodden track.
Over the kibbutz, a myriad stars of hope well up in
sorrowed sky like nymphs from the Nadir; hard acorns
crack; a dove folds tired wings, the olive sprig on track.
Did I detect my blood inside his sun drenched skin?
The echo of a sob familiar in its nuance? A gladness born
of knowledge that from the bottom the way is only up?
They say that when we cry it’s only for ourselves. That
the distance patched or covered, conglomeration done
has father forking out, as always, the heifer for the son.