Shabbat

I. I’m listening to winged things sing songs
in praise of trees. I know all the tunes and 
none of the words, like Friday night service

at temple. It’s Friday night, and the moon 
is wrapped in cloud. For modesty’s sake. 
As if the moon is modest. 

I’m in the bathroom with my cell phone, 
making a long distance call to God or 
whoever will pick up. 

It rings and rings till morning. 

II. Today- the smell of acorns,
the shape of pinecones, a mad dash 
through a stranger’s sprinkler. 

Looking through the stranger’s window.
She’s dumping wilted lilies and I want 
to remind her: they don’t die 

when they dry, they die when you first 
cut them. But she’s sad for the empty vase.