I clean Elijah's cup.
I lay out the Seder plate.
These are my duties, proscribed for me by God,
Handed down to me from the first of my line, perhaps Moses himself.
Husband, provider, protector....
When the door is opened,
to the Tishbi, and to the stranger...
I will be far away, in another world.
I mention the irony to her.
Wife, nurturer, creator...
Change can be positive, she says.
She doesn't look from the bitter herbs she chops, in preparation.
I nod, the continue to clean the brass cup.
Nothing really to say.
Comments on this poem/writing:
Click here to read other Poems by Pilgrim
Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: All Rights Reserved. No part of this website, including all pictures and written words, may be reproduced or copied in any manner from this website without permission of the original author of the work. All poetry and pictures herein remain the sole property of the original author and/or copyright owner. All poetry on this website has been submitted by the original author of the work. To contact any author of the work please e-mail: email@example.com so the proper person may be notified.