A New Year

 

We went down to Zucotti Park the day

after Rosh Hashana, when everything

is clean and new.  The yoke of debt is lifted

from our shoulders, and anything

can be written on the freshly cleaned slate.

 

I got an email from my grandfather:

“Shana Tova.  Happy New Year.  I am

writing to you from your grandmother’s

bedside, here in the hospital.  We can’t

tell from what they show on the TV

what is really going on in New York,

but I know that you are down there.  It reminds

us of what we tried to do in the ‘30s.

I hope it works out better this time.”

 

Yes, grandpa, the people are in the street.

They aren’t scared of the police anymore

and they are trying to take a stand.

These people fought in the war, or against

the war, or they didn’t know what to do.

Some worked hard their whole lives but haven’t got

anything to show for it, yet.  Others

got a little bit.  Most of us still don’t

know what to do, but we have to do something.

It’s sunny now, but it might rain tonight.

Rain and dirt are the things that make seeds grow.

May all our names be inscribed in the book of life.

 

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