Chana Bloch (March 15, 1940 – May 19, 2017)
I made a big wish on the evening star,
Venus, or was it Mars,
but it was a low-flying plane
I saw the little foxes on the hillside
with their pointy red ears;
up close, a fallen branch of autumn.
When the guide clapped his hands,
the brilliant apples on the tree got frightened
and flew away.
The marriage I called Gibraltar
went down like a ship
scraping the rocky strait.
I thought the war would bring peace.
The road signs all said
This Way to the Future, so we ran out
with flag and shovel, elated, planting—