“Blessed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl.”
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The kindergarten bus pulls away
with the last fruit of my womb,
and I turn
looking for days of diapers,
weeks of cartoon-reading,
months of playgrounds;
I was mirror, echo, withness.
How to fill my basket now?
Why carry the kneading bowl on my head?
Slowly, my sneakers take care of me
and I walk, chanting:
May he be blessed in backpack and lunchbag,
May he be blessed in pencils and erasers,
May he be blessed in the raising of his hand and
the tying of his shoe.
Now I am blessed with choice…
how to fill my basket…
how to shape the year.
