dust

The Scent Of Lemons

kikirosner

To Amnon Zamir

Macadamwolf

Photograph by Yaron Rosner

 

You carry the Scent of lemons,

of gathered Sun, weathered

like Salt into your existence

Millennia of unsettled Dust

 

With the Fullness of pomegranates

the voices of my Ancestors roll

off your tongue, fall to my feet

as you turn, lean towards me

 

Touching your cheek, I hear them

call me Home, pleading

me to remember

 

I shudder in your warmth

Pine beneath

my golden welcome,

your mouth stamps

me with my essence

Patience I whisper,

and return to the pact

I have made my life

in Exile to be.

 

the dust of my beginning II

kikirosner

The dust of my beginning

Is the Breathing of my mother’s sighs

As she heaves the hills and deserts of my Belonging

The dust of my Becoming

Is what rises from my footfalls

As I search my mother’s contours

Question her substance

Look beneath the dirt of her surface

I sweat under the sun’s eye

chill in the night’s shadow

Until I find her

Gurgling between moss and stone

revealing the secret of her Determination

Through the sweetness of this liquid sound.

I embrace the Dust of my life

As I steep in the clarity of this water

My home for a Moment,

I know the dust to be my condition

The water my reward

Together they define my existence

Without them I am an Orphan

A beggar with no hands

dust of my Beg