Cleaning out the pantry,
I pause to ponder a forgotten potato.Â
Soft and wrinkled,Â
purple starbursts popped open,
rays reaching out in all directions,
programmed to gather inÂ
the nutrientsÂ
wherever you find yourself.Â
You have learned to become your own sort of root.Â
Broken open, replanted,Â
you know how to grow again from the darkness.Â
As we find our way out of Mitzrayim,Â
This year,Â
I am holding you close,
quintessential Pesakh foodÂ
of my Ashkenazi ancestors,Â
dipped in salt water,Â
transformed into kugel,Â
crisped into confettiÂ
Stix packed into foil bagsÂ
slipped into movie theatres,Â
shiny on fingers and chins.
This year,
doors open,
chairs empty,
stomachs rumbling,
we will blessÂ
The One who made the earth
The One who made us from the earth
and breathed us into being.
We will sing
Mir Zaynen Do
We are hereÂ
We are still here.
