Passover, Still

Monday in April.  Passover, still.

What was it like to be in the desert

where is home and how do we make it

our parents didn’t ask those questions

but we who thought we could invent our lives

worked hard to be otherwise

we who were arrogant enough

to make our own exiles to wander deserts

our parents had not imagined Morocco Sinai

even Algeria we grow older now, if we’re lucky,

we are just like those Jews, those Egyptians,

just like everyone who has walked across this earth

looking for home.

 

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

2 Comments

  1. Esther, this poem is emotionally true for all Jews, but also for everyone. I am touched deeply in all my ‘feels.’
    Thank you for continuing your daily poems. I read and ponder each one.
    Gratefully, Ginger Mason

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