Cleaning out the pantry,
I pause to ponder a forgotten potato.
Soft and wrinkled,
purple starbursts popped open,
rays reaching out in all directions,
programmed to gather in
the nutrients
wherever you find yourself.
You have learned to become your own sort of root.
Broken open, replanted,
you know how to grow again from the darkness.
As we find our way out of Mitzrayim,
This year,
I am holding you close,
quintessential Pesakh food
of my Ashkenazi ancestors,
dipped in salt water,
transformed into kugel,
crisped into confetti
Stix packed into foil bags
slipped into movie theatres,
shiny on fingers and chins.
This year,
doors open,
chairs empty,
stomachs rumbling,
we will bless
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 here
We are still here.
