Paul Rabinowitz – Three Poems

A broken clothesline leans

against its shadow

nothing to hang memories

on

through the stillness of the desert landscape

I meander

fragrance of creosote bush

underfoot

In the distance a prickly pear cactus

tempts the coyote

despite needles

the coyote consumes its fruit

every thing

transient

a wanderer

hears the gentle pitch of water

ringing

at the source

she cups her hands

a steady stream

of cool liquid 

washes

over parched lips

memories flow

like seagrass

with thirst neurons

quieted

the northern sun setting

she tramples

through puddles

down the mountain

leaving muddy footprints

in her wake

orange sky

illuminates

a still water pool

quenched and satisfied

she gives pause

stares

at her reflection

an acceptance

of being

a new starting point

near the end

of her long journey

As the glow

of autumn

retreats

winter begins

its unforgiving

trek

like a bare tree

on skeletal

ground

I find you

on a subway platform

leaning

against steel beams

black scarf

wrapped tightly

‘round

bowed head

like in prayer

reading the last 

revision

of my prose

delicate fingers

touch the page

where I mimic

nature’s process

a seedling germinates

pulling energy

from light above ground

while digging

deeper

for sustenance

below the surface

worn leather boots

tapping

in rhythm

where so many others

have stood

waiting

with eyes beaming

like headlights

you slide the shawl

from your head

finish the last page

as an eastbound L-train

rumbles

through a long

dark tunnel

and for the first time

since handing me Hemingway’s

Garden of Eden

you turn

to look at me

when thaw

begins

banks overflow

you’ll wait

with bucket

and shovel

for the renewal

of spring

preparing a way

for the smallest

revelations

of my truth