White path

I heard from them today.

Strangely

my old world lay on my feet-

like to remind me

it ‘s still on my head

lively, discrete...

I still watch the snowflakes fall smoothly-

seedless cotton wool-

filling the pathways with a stainless white

like a brides’ dress

I still see the brownish earth disappear

underneath

and the trees’ branches, bending

to pay honor to the passers by-

that enjoy every bit of nature’s courtesy

offered whitish -

I still see them appreciate

and understand

and be willing to walk the deserted pathways

this March

and willingly

living behind the landmarks of their feet

though temporarily-

pacing ahead

and trusting their own orientation

in deciding their next step-

unquestionably-

fearless, but blindly also

‘cos the pathways have disappeared

somewhere therein

challenging their ‘know how’;

to look beyond the horizon’s line

that can’t make it further than yards...

But they still go for it-

the roadmap in their heads

leads them slowly

shortening the distance to their destination

though by yards

adding few more stops

on the way

to read the landmarks-

centurion trees-

witnesses-

allies in every way

to every sweet and bad dream

the tots tried to tell

over breakfast

while the grown ups nodded

and later thought

"It could be true!"

I see further down-

the hills-

showing off its’ brand new white blouses

leading those rare passers by

nearer

from where they can finally see

though blurrily- their own homes

though vaguely- can hear the bells

ringing

in cottages

and then only

they remember their long march

on the pathway they didn’t see

but unmistakably followed...

and didn’t notice

icicles hanging to their hairy beards

while forgot they were thirsty at all...

I still see them

bending back their heads-

facing the sky;

I see them letting snowflakes

land on their lips;

I see snowflakes disappear

ahead of their breath

and melt

within;

I see their breath balance rhythm

and the alpine pigment

return to their chin

I still see the heat in their eyes

melt the frozen snow in the pathways

as far away

as the edge of their vision-

while hot air

escapes steamily

from their open- cavy- mouths

and land somewhere-

I don’t know-

somewhere whitish...

Then I see them smile-

looking nowhere

but having all in their catch-

holding the distance

in their palms-

Then I see them look thoughtful

but fresher,

their chest going up

and shoulders back

even though their inheritance

has been reduced to a riffle

their lives

reduced to a bullet

their dreams

reduced to a march

on the snowy, white pathways

And they let more snowflakes

fall on their lips,

and let them disappear

within

so they would then carry on

further, nearer, nearer still

Their black trousers

and their red shirts

contrasting

season’s fashion, but

busting their pride

while they approach

the door

they know it will be open

I see them recalling the knocking formula

a short-single

a long

a dual short

The L of Morse

for Freedom

Strangely I can still see

landmarks of their feet in the doorstep

twice as deep-

While the white pathways

take turns to stay awake tonight

so they can sleep...

Landmarks will be on guard...

Perparim 2006