Tanya is late to class again.
Dragging Ruthy’s pudgy hand
she lifts her onto a chair
feet swaying like dreamy bells,
shoes chunky with mud.
The whole room rings
with Ruthy’s soft tune
as a triad of white paper dolls
and twirl like mystics
at the riddling sounds of Hebrew.
Her mother carefully sifts
through grains of ancient letters,
consonants that spray,
under the slow soldering of her pen
building great pillars and orbs
in words she will have no time to dream.