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Spring, 2022

There have been early signs

of life 

amid the rubble

and the tears.

With each green shoot

I wish I could proclaim

that it is here.

This has been 

a dark and deathly 


seen on the faces

of mothers,

of children,

walking stoically 

towards safety,

terror pumping 

in their hearts.

I wish spring

would hurry

with its joyful 


that it would

loosen the crushing vise 

worn by all of war’s victims—

let them breathe long

and deep

the pure and gentle air

of peace.

Jill Haber Pallone


My Grandmother’s Spoon

How little 

I understood you—

the odd click-clack

of your thick heels 

on the scratched 

linoleum floor;

the hills and valleys 

of your mattress 

made from horses’


where I slept fitfully,

head to toe,

with you and my baby


Your apartment smelled

of concrete walls

damp with years of sadness

and the constant 

steamy boil

in the kitchen 

only big enough 

for you,

where you kneaded

and stirred 

and baked 

your broken memories.

Once you told me

that in the Old World, 

your house had mud floors.

But that was all.

You didn’t speak of your mother,

who taught you never 

to think of yourself,

only others.

You said nothing 

of your father—

Was he kind to you?

Did he look upon you


And never did you 

dare reveal

the terror 

that chased you all


or your churning misery

as you grasped 

your growing belly,

praying to your Jealous G-d

for smooth seas

and a healthy boy.

I wish I could visit you again.

we would drink milky coffee

and eat stale bread,

as you liked to do 

when you were alone.

And you could tell me

the story

of the big metal spoon

that you chose 

to carry with you

and which, somehow, 

had become mine.

Jill Haber Pallone


Easter, 2022

(With thoughts for the refugees of Ukraine)

The air is so gentle now.

There is no need to fight 

fast-flowing rain

with brooms and buckets 

and rubber rafts;

no need to shield yourself

from maniacal winds 

that would surely rejoice 

at your destruction.

Spring brings a cautious truce,

where the sun sits in a perfect place;

when we try not to think too much

about the stifling, scalding days

awaiting us in summer,

but to raise our eyes 

to tranquil blue skies 

and newborn buds

and leaves,

lit by the kindness 

of the cosmos,

which feeds the fragile,

tender seeds

of our battered hope

for peace.

Jill Haber Pallone


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We hope you enjoyed them. To show appreciation, please consider making a donation - and maybe if you have an extra minute, let the poet know you did!

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