The Nile gardens we left.
Staked in the rich river soil; our beans we left, tall and fat.
Marrakesh we fled; its flowering vines we left,
watered, sweet, drowsing in the courtyard.
From Lodz we walked, away from the brindled cow,
milked morning and evening. Feeling still
her warm side pressed against our wet cheek.
From fear and toil we fled – from home.
We became strangers in a new land,
on a boat, on the road, across the desert, in a factory, in an office,
in the frozen food section, at the drive-through, in a strange home.
And we wondered, “How can we grow roots in this foreign soil?”
Resting, on a bench in leaf shadow,
the earth calls to us, and we rouse and answer.
We buy a pot, a trowel, seeds;
spread compost; turn under the grass, with boot and shovel,
pull vines from new fruit trees; tend tomatoes and peppers;
marvel at a climbing pea vine, at the improbable beauty of its flower.
And we remember the land we left in grief and haste, as we water this new soil.
This shank bone, we imagine, once grazed a shepherd’s beloved hill.
These greens once rose to sun and rain in a distant land,
and to them we offer our bitterness and separation.
Apple, nuts, egg and spice, and this unleavened bread, we raise up, brought, all,
from this earth, with care and with miracles.
We were strangers, and you fed us. Now, we pray,
Imeinu M’kor Hayeinu, our Mother, welcome our return home.
