The Waves are Not Tired

by Yaacov Dovid Shulman

The waves are not tired of rolling into shore,
The moon is not tired of dipping across the sky,
The mountains are not tired of their steady faithfulness,
The clouds are not tired of their shiftless drifting,
The car lights are not tired of their silent speeding across roads across the valley,
The radiator steam is not tired of its morning hiss,
Nor is the coffee tired of its wisps of steam,
But I am tired.
I have climbed down into the crevices of my brain,
I have slept in the shadows of words,
I have awoken to find that the same sultry dull summer morning
Of dry, baked earth awaited my hoeing and watering,
I have brought my desiccated peas home,
I have yearned for hills and streams of water.
I did not know that the earth itself was burning my feet
And that I was drying of thirst,
And raised my face to a sprinkle of scant rain
That raised puffs of dust.
No wonder those who looked at my dilapidated plow,
My heavy-headed, stark-ribbed ox,
My broken barn
Didn’t see the soil where tongues of flame lapped up.
Good morning,
Said the traveler, watching himself wearily hold the plow pulled by a dragging ox,
Watching himself look up at the sun crawling like a clock across the bony sky.
And his first arrow burst into his chest
And he watched his blood flow down into the thirsty soil.
And he gazed down from the lip of the canyon,
Seeing himself below holding his bow,
Seeing himself below lying upon the cracked soil
And his eyes met his.
The thunder was not tired of rumbling across the sky,
Nor were the swift shifting rivulets tired of carving their soft names
Into the hard brown earth.