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Crumbling bread burnt,

charred before Pesach and

pocket bread bits dumped,

washed away to

tomorrow for Rosh Hashanah.

Take me back to fields,

wheat grown and golden

waiting to be gathered in.

Take me back to loaves

raised from the earth,

shared sustenance.


Woven loaf, a path

of possibility, blessed with

tastes, salted with tears

sacrificed at the Temple

of remembrance and forgetting.

Take me back to ovens

hot in the kitchen,

the scent of hot bread.

Take me back to yeast,

rising dough in a bowl

and small hands helping.


Unraveling trails left

behind and bird-eaten during

hikes through stony hills

above the desert heat

and below sky waters

take me back to time,

swept forward and back

into revelations of you,

take me back to bread,

a beginning with an end,

a bite to eat, water to drink.



Michael lives, works, studies, and sometimes teaches in Jerusalem, Israel. His book, Midwest / Mid-East, can be found at  http://bit.ly/158lbnu).