Sometimes I write letters that as migratory birds
carry my words to the other extreme of forgetfulness.
Short paragraphs saturated with periods.
Carefully edited, empty of love,
interconnected as a card castle in the air.

Sometimes I write letters to the rain
that now is remembrances in faded photographs
with unknown sender.

To the window that is open to the Winter.
To the grandmother’ voice that said:
“This is a picture of my brother who left for Argentina
from whom we never received any news;
and this is a picture of one of my lover
who I never had the opportunity to kiss.”

Sometimes I write letters to the earth that now is water,
to the white shirt man who now is soil,
to the wave of foam that kisses the sand of the shore,
to the fisherman who is now a grandfather,
to the grandfather who is now a child.
Sometimes I write letters that I never send.

From Sun and Water Poems – Luna’s Press, San Francisco – 1998

ta’alumot yode’a tza’akateinu ushma kabel shav’atenu – Malchut 7