from the Journals - Anita Holzberg

In the shadows of swallows, I sing
  On the roof tops of Sunnyvale, I chant
In the washing up, cleaning up
   I remember what it was like to be
        a Mom--the pathfinder, the sewing up
of hearts


In all that makes up a day, I utter
The mail that comes to my door,
The fig newton that I chose to eat
The phone calls that come in and out
The newspaper very often unread
The Nook Tablet that takes on new meaning


In the rushing around, I lose
In the reflection I win


For in this recovery, I step out of shadows
I write the winning ticket towards the next life


In recovery
In rehab
I train myself
In that training there is freedom, too.


In the Song of Songs
I chant unto the birds
For all who come to my door
For the silent time
For the intuitive sense of Peace.

Anita Schiffman Holzberg