Matzoh ball Mountain

I was born on matzoh ball mountain
between two ridges
where once a year the rain came down
in golden, icy chicken soup balls
and I opened my mouth to the sky
inhaling bones and all

My translucent wings were gold from the beginning
and from the beginning I knew how to fly
I dipped and looped, soared and sailed, floated and twirled, slowed and stopped
looking, seeing, smelling, tasting, listening, imagining

What do you see, when you see? Do you see?
How do you see and Who do you see?
Do you see me?
Are you really listening? Are you really there?

Me? I stir the soup.
I draw, I write, I speak
telling stories with my hands
like two sea otters floating happily on undulating waves
singing, dancing, playing

My life,
so like the butterfly whose flight does not go straight
--from point A to point B—but flows
as a song, a poem, a river, the life cycle of a plant,
the journey of sun & moon

A star I am: Stern, born of die Sterne
in the valley of the roses, Rosenthal
it’s in my bones, you know,
the ones I inhaled on matzoh ball mountain

‘Tis the bones that make the best soup
in between the ridges
where I gather to plant,
scattering gold as I fly

~Nicole Raisin Stern
14 October, 2006