Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
A POET'S HOUSE
for Chris Lord
Walking by your house I suddenly remembered
two lines that had come to me the day before.
But at that time I was in a place where it was easy
to get distracted and forget them -- and I did.
Now, walking by your house, seeing the Spring bulbs
breaking ground and flowering in your yard, here
they came again. And this time I pulled pen and paper
out of my pocket and stopped to write them down.
Wouldn't it be lovely for all our houses, all our
lives, to serve this way? When people would walk by
they'd think of their gift, and not get distracted.
They'd let them sprout and blossom. And, as a result,
when others walked by their house...and others
by their house...and others by their house....
PITCHPIPE AND WATCH
for my parents, Armin and Blanka
This is the pitchpipe my father blew
to get his starting note as a cantor in shul.
This is the wristwatch my mother watched
to time her cooking in her kitchen.
He sang to God, every day, without fail.
She put meals on the table, daily, on time.
There are things I wish they'd given me--
some of which I'm still looking for--
but the love of singing to God,
and a healthy body, are inestimable gifts.
Pitchpipe and watch--they fit in my hand.
One needs breath to sound, the other,
winding to work. Both so small,
closing my hand hides them.
Yet his voice remains, echoing in mine.
And her food built this body which still sings.
Lazlo Slomovits, Ann Arbor
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