I am the Camp Kesem Director and Jewish Life Associate at Hillel at Stanford. Previously, I was Program Director at Santa Cruz Hillel, and I was a freelance writer for Santa Cruz Good Times Weekly. I am passionate about writing, literature, history, and experiential education.
"If I ever stop wandering... then i'll be lost," you said. it was three in the morning when every word bears false importance. sentences drifted through our lips like cigarette smoke we spoke like it was the last time and maybe it was because we were students living in a universe-city where brilliance thrives on crowded streetcorners You were going to write a road novel You didn't have a driver's license, but poetic license was enough You built your own road out of paragraphs and we gathered free verse like wildflowers blooming stubbornly in gritty spaces "Remember?" "Nothing is free anymore," you sigh. We're so old, and I travel alone these days filling jars with wind and colored leaves in relentless autumns of discovery You left the universe behind and lost yourself in the city where they toss people out like yesterday's news They sell ragged stanzas and false importance on the corners where life used to bloom We never knew we'd have to pay for free verse
The pages of your novel are stark with winter now I try to wrap you in a dusty book jacket but you brush the words from your skin Forgotten lines and question marks fall like feathers "Breathe," I whisper. Your warmth hovers like a sentence at dawn When you're ready to wander again Search for me between the wrinkled pages I'll be there with an open jar of autumn