Will you give me a drink?

where the sun melts the sky above Sychar,
sits an old, deep well. a woman bends down
drawing water, for herself, by herself.
She startles as a man approaches her.
He is a Jew. and she is a half-bred.
He sits down by the well, tired, thirsty,
a wearied traveler, lost foreigner.
He begins to speak, "Will you give me a drink?" 

"How can you ask me for a drink!" she cries
exasperated - she does not realize
who is speaking, who is standing with her

He speaks, "If you knew who it is who asks
you for a drink, you would have asked and he
would have given to you Living Water"

landscape sketches - the tree - revised

[close frame]

the old tree's
dark brown arms

out-stretched towards heaven

standing. bending. 

growing together. 

fingers extend 

to touch the sky

in the chalky mist

of snow

[medium frame]

gray grass bobs,
 bends in the bitter breeze
backs burdened by snowfall
heads bow towards the tree
standing tall, lined in white
unmoved by February's breath

[distant frame]

snow falls like a cloud of chalk
against a living, grayed, black board
the gentle, rolling lines of the field
curtained by white winds and falling snow
in the distance, a strong stroke of
dark brown pokes through the white

after Isabel's poem : "They Couldn't Salvage Anything"

They Couldn't Salvage Anything
A house burning
is a home on fire.

“a house burning is a home on fire”

we flee
clinging what we could carry,
the heat chasing our backs.

your room
the flames seize with clenched fists,
releasing singed black ashes.

unsatisfied
the fire licks your children's rooms
too, no safe space left unscathed.

from a safer
distance, we count our heads.
"all safe. no, wait - ". we count again.

father demands
"where is she?"
at the neighbors'. across the street. 
out for a drive. or at the office, certainly. 
the crumpled wood and blackened bricks sit silent.
 so sister says, "we don't know".