Trying to catch a butterfly
in a glass jar
in my grandmother’s backyard
stumbling over the shadows
of yesterday.

My grandmother hums
bits of liturgy, weaving
the notes
like braids of challah.

Above her sink
a plant that reminds her
of Russia, watered
by memories
hot as her teenage years.

Sometimes she gazes
at an old photo
her rabbi father
her mother crouched
beneath an old-world weight
knowing she will never see them
in living colour again.

What will I do, I think,
when I catch that butterfly
just beyond my fingertips?
And I keep running,
scooping at light,
as I fill my jar to the brim.

When they talk
of the river
in a language

I don’t understand
I know they think
the waters are raging

The past tugs at a person
as if he is a kite
that is trying
to break free
from the limits of string

Among these trees
we give up our questions
to let the sky
come down to meet us
with a rustling of leaves

Catfish under the bridge
on sunlit timbers.
I wanted to catch
the shadows of their comings
& goings, the swish

The small cottage shook,
sheet lightning for windowpanes.
Outside the door
wild roses danced dervish.
My mother mentioned God

The tuna they brought in
was tall as a house.
They gave us its heart for bait
& never once
did we think about sadness

In a bright vest
a policewoman
motions smoothly,
smoothly, to the rivers
of honking steel

White leaning birch
herring-bone clouds, I
sit with you, free
once again from the city,
guessing a flower’s name

Each May the magnolia
across the street
favours us with its blossoms.
In a few weeks, gone,
its work scattered on the lawn.