Poet in our midst, Robbi Nestor
Lisa Walford
Birthday of the World
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
makes its own weather, raising 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. Already, leaves begin
to fall, seedpods fatten, days shorter, morning
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