Aninut by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
The stalks were easy to snap
just above the root, brittle already
from flirting with first frost.
Still, they held clusters
of tiny gold flowers
until I broke them free and
laced each stem across the top
of our sukkah, merest hint
of roof holding back
the darkening sky.
By morning they blossomed
anew, each tight bud
now a puffball of white fur spiced with seeds.
In a week
we’ll fling the remnants
past the forest’s edge,
let these old husks fade.
Come spring they’ll sprout
somewhere, maybe here, though
I doubt they’ll remember
these days suspended in the sun,
air crisp like apples and sweet
with new-mown grass, bees
carrying the memory of summer
back to their hidden hives.
For Sandy Ryan, after the death of her father.
From: Beside Still Waters, available for download and purchase
