Klezmer, notes

Notes

Klezmer, two silver-haired ladies,
heads lean together, one dabs a napkin
to her potato salad lips, the dribble
of Salmon juice on her chin, the napkin
splashes across her hips.

A greasy handprint on the tablecloth,
like the one on the stone by the entrance,
marks a place of transformation, and I wanted to ask,
after we wonder how we became so old,
if we all must wait until we are silver and grey
to sit and feast together this way?

“When?“ she laughs,
“After you find a nut to crack
and remember your visionary universe!”
They chuckle and bob to the violins.
“I love these transitions between movements!”
she says, shaking-up her drum tambourine.

It’s easy to see her half a century ago
by the sparkling of her eye,
those branches woodwind, her whispering leaves,
a girl grown lean, a woman
in a grove of chosen trees.

Back to the table with a slow clap Klezmer wind-up.
The slow passion of gypsies riding through
Inspiration; fountains of story and lore -

happy times, when first circle companionship is blessed
and I am for one moment there
- when they are with visions, birds, and totems,
and the rest is reportage.