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A Draft Unfinished


Things come in threes.

Who said that first?

Anyway, I didn’t have three.

I had one


Rosh Hashanah.

Somehow, Rosh Hashanah

Always forces considerations of all new years

The one that belongs to me in August

The one that belongs to the world in January.

My own

Status quo

I was going to write a poem,

For the Israel Voices submission.

Something about the theme of ‘birds’

My friend gave me in birthday presents.

Though I usually write about cooking.

Apples. Honey.

Anyway, I can’t write a blog post and submit,

All of a sudden, with a click and an Internet connection

Previously published work.

Then, instead of a beginning,

There was an end


Ruth Badar Ginsburg.

I did not feel hope at her departure

I feel fear.

But, it doesn’t matter right?

No matter

Who wins?

It doesn’t

We still fight.

“Those who die on Rosh Hashanah are considered righteous,”

Dad repeated from the news anchor.

I turned

Breaking from my habit of

Keeping my back

To the news.

“I wondered,” a beginning

And I had.

“I wondered about that.” I finished.

Because she holds the traits

What really matters.





More than winning,

There was another





Decorated collars selected

With intent for the neck

I was told in Israel

Moves the head.

And right

Is not the same

As righteousness.

And I wonder

How much

She must have hoped

Not despaired

How much

She must have believed

In all of us

For all of us

Starting a new year

To let go.

Anyway, life doesn’t die

In autumn

It waits

For seeds

To take root.

And this poem,

Is really just a draft


That I let go

Because I ran out of time.

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