One droplet in the green;

the clear looking glass

of eons yet to be seen,

and eons of lost past;

of has, was and could have been

are caught within a glance;

a glimmer; a projection,

a globe’s circumference

in each drop, queendoms,

their union and divergence

within neurons and electrons

of those two coiling serpents

within the spill of Eden  

when Eve’s lips spoke portents

that conceived her children

to traverse each river’s currents,

and we, her offering, her offspring;

one drop of seed or seamen

that bought about all humans

from Eve-Chava and Adam

and the breath of the Divine

sigh of endless longing

to be witnessed, to entwine,

to reach towards self-knowing

and reflection, this our origins

as Tzimtzimai, her belly growing

contracts, so we begin,

one drop of red wine;

one memory of spring,

awakes the whited vine,

like a drop of blood

in the plasma of time,

one drop to forge mud,

soil into the sanguine

beating heart of love,

one drop of red loam sings

of all the life it’s known

of all pips, bulbs, beings,

of all it has once grown

in each membrane, all living things,

everything the winds have sown,

as the globe respires, spins,

begins again,

we have unwound dusty reels

to recall before we were human,

when first fruit and animals

inhabited the world’s new lands,

gathered in awe, as one, watchful,

the first full moon in Divine hands,

we born of the bountiful,

the first full cup of moon

spilt into the spinning wheel,

of the blessed loom

kabbalists revealed

with mouths opened

to what tongues yield,

while wisdom spoons

through sacred meal,

such leaves and tomes

that cloak a seed in peel,

like a butterfly cocooned

or a letter duly sealed,

until, reaching its destination

its purpose is unfurled,

one drop within Life’s womb

co-manifesting worlds,

one drop from the ink well

in each vibration of creation,

the drops we use to spell

the names of constellations,

or the ones our gen can tell,

for, all our calculations

are one drop in the swell,

convergence, separation,

one drop whirls in a centrifugal,

particle dividing machine,

finding hidden tales to tell

in the DNA of generations,

all life in every cell,

we each live a portion,

made of angels who rose or fell,

for who defines up from down

when all life is a cup, a circle

gravity draws together in its round

and we feel where the source is,

drops in ether,

each drop equal flame and water,

a suspension of opposite forces,

the line twixt Goddess and daughter

blurred by the flow of courses

of the lives we help co-author,

in the south, first fruit’s harvest

in the turning of this sphere,

and we share the pith, zest,

and promise at the core,

the bitterness and sweetness,

in recollections of before

within the sleeping orchards,

their blossoms yet to flower,

though some branches may be dead,

their essence retains power,

spring’s arriving in our breast

in the northern hemisphere,

one drop of sap thawing, rising,

one drop of sap beneath the snow

the roots of epochs reigniting

strange fruit upon the tree of souls,

each different seed all life inscribing,

each cell within, bearing the whole.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch