Bird Of Diaspora

bird of disaspora


They have burned our books

and with the charred words, they have turned

our soul to ash. If there is mercy

among the elements, let a spirit

paste and mold those cinders

into a mourning dove. Then leave the bird

to nest in a fig tree. When the weather warms,

and the humid wind causes its feathers

to molt, there will be whisperings

of who we were:


the woman who stitched

linen & leather in her house

to make a living,


who braided her hair and bread

into something strong and beautiful,

a lattice work

of heritage and wheat,


the man who studied

the precision of scales

and the text of ancient sea scrolls,


who lit an oil lamp

and played his songs of experience

on a violin,


the child who spun

his or her mind

into a universe of letters and stars,


who learned how to permeate

and assume the shape

of unknown things like water


and people who believed

they could blend

into a city of new ideas


while the silt of Israel

was still settling

in the riverbed of their veins.




  1. Wendy,

    I love that dynamic and unexpected ending.
    finely honed from beginning to end.

    So very much enjoyed, and so thankful to have
    you active at the Pub again.

    Welcome home!



  2. Thanks so much Sarah!

    It;s good to be back, taking every thing in little steps — walking, bending, typing etc. Glad you enjoyed the poem and deeply, deeply appreciate your friendship and support.

    Again, many thanks!
    God Bess you and Happy New Year!


    • Maryse,

      I just saw this. I haven’t gotten any emails from you in my gmail.
      will check the comcast mail now and let you know.

      Happy New Year!!

      bunches of hugs,



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