The water of anticipation

He still remembers a time

when it was not desert,

not locusts and honey. But

the memory is fading,

blurring around breaking

edges where real meets

imagination

his mother’s touch, soft

voice, his father’s arm

to lean on, the rabbi’s

prayer, men reading

from the scrolls

of parchment, yellow

and brittle

he walked into the desert,

his parents’ eyes on his back,

his tangled hair; he has not

seen them since but

the longing is paired

with contentment, often

he knows his place, what

he is to do, to say, and so he

begins to talk to rocks and

bees and snakes and scorpions

and birds, anything that moves,

at first, until one or two hear

and remain, then the others

after the words come

the words with water, standing

in the river, the one they crossed

for the promise. He watches

the crowds as he talks,

looking, waiting,

anticipating

Photograph by Lila Frerichs via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.