bring our years to an end as
a tale that is told.
The sign hung from two twisted gray cords
Pointing skyward, from a listing pole
Bent, buckled by years of rust and rain.
Pale peeling paint proclaimed: Hebrew Scribe.
A faded arrow etched beneath still
Visually signed the walker's way.
Bending forward and turning my head,
I looked for the place the arrow led—
A yellowed building. Stucco-shedding.
The setting sun lit faded letters
On dirtied window-glass: Mezuzahs.
Ketubahs. All Holy Books Repaired.
With a heart, less than a holy book,
With a soul in need of much repair,
I restarted my slow, stuttered stroll.
At home, cold water poured over my
Cold hands washed my worried walk away.
Sand. Scribbled on disremembered shores.