Log Cabin Chronicles
With my sharp grafting knife,
with its tempered rounded blade,
with an eager and practiced hand,
I invade the body
of the aging mulberry tree.
The young branch that has been chosen
absolutely bursts with the damp raging
juices of life. And when I
thrust and slide it under
the bark and bind it firmly,
I think of the aging trunk
that is my own body, and of
the miracle that is denied me, of
the wound of the mulberry tree, and of
the mercy with which I cause it
pain: the beneficent mercy
of the graft.
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner.
Elisha Porat writes on a kibbutz in Israel.
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Copyright © 2005 Elisha Porat