The Good Words Don't Burn

 Avigayil F I spoke my words into the wind, but the wind would not carry them. I sealed them into a bottle with an airtight cork and unbreakable glass, the ink still sharp as the day I wrote them— but they did not drift ashore. I inscribed my words in sand and stone, and some of them are still out there, etched into the walls of a forgotten building. And I thought of all the words that I had sent out into the world and wondered if it was enough to speak my words out loud, so that my soul could hear its own voice, and know itself.

 Yaffa Avigayil F In the softest shades of black and grey   The little girl rests in her father’s arms Astride the left breast of his charcoal-colored suit Checkered dress and mary-janes rounding Small toes Which swing in the air Her long, wispy hair disappears into his cropped tuft Slender arms reach out From white-capped sleeves One small hand wrapped around his neck The other folded in his firm grip Square jaw and rounded chin Gaze solemnly into the camera As two rows of trees converge in the distance On the open road   Their matching, Round, protruding ears Cannot hear the marching boot-steps Which will trample their pastoral quietude   I wonder if his wife snapped the photo Tzipporah And if her voice chirped like the bird she was named for As she called, “Moshe, Yaffa! Turn around and look at the camera!” And if she ever thought about that airy openness And the way the trees fanned out behind them As they huddled together in darkness Or when they again bl...