I asked for light and the missing
tree promised more light
I asked for the names of the dead
in Pittsburgh New Zealand Chicago
heard only numbers 50 dead in Christchurch
saw faces no longer innocent or alive
Without canopies of leaves there is nothing
between us and the sky between us and strangers
undressing behind shades across the way
I do not know the names of those shot down in a mosque
a synagogue or the far corners of my city
Nothing shields us and the wind
howls syllables of lost names
What do we make of the hollowness in the center?
What can we plant as streets empty of American Elms
and shutters close against centuries of loss?
I peel them open rung by rung
reach for the hands of strangers
kneeling across prayer rugs
Hope comes in small increments of light
Dina Elenbogen, a widely published and award-winning poet and writer, is author of the memoir “Drawn From Water: an American Poet, an Ethiopian Family, an Israeli Story” and the poetry collection “Apples of the Earth.”
