Through an emptied afternoon I prune wearied undergrowth
rasping stems break against earth
Last year a neighbor felled a tree whose leaves sheltered my mornings
a sudden spotlight shone in my kitchen when the trunk creaked down
days that followed never as bright or as shaded
Since then my eyes and hands have retreated from shortcuts
imposed by monochrome minds trailing creepers
that fade too far from their roots
and acclimatize to smoke from bonfires set under bridges
overloaded with migrants who scan any horizon
for a fixed star
Mori Glaser spent her earliest years in Singapore, grew up in the UK, and moved to Israel 35 years ago.
Her poetry and flash have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Eunoia Review; The Alexandria Review; Unbroken; Vine Leaves Literary Journal: a collection of vignettes from across the globe; Between the Lines’ anthology, Fairy Tales and Folklore Re-imagined; Akashic Books web series Thursdaze; The Molotov Cocktail’s 2017 Shadow Award (3rd prize).