A day comes when it has always been winter, will always be winter.
My mother died on Shavuot, at the end ofthe Counting of the Omer.Her oldest brother died in 1916; he fell in the war.
Combing my hair, a sudden snarlin the pink teeth.
How silent, death entering.
Wind does one thing with clouds, another with leaves;the clouds go, go, go; the leaves
Watching a couple of crowsplaying around in the woods, swoopingin low after each other, I wonderif they ever slam into the trees.