the space my body fills

I have an affinity for trees. For me, they emit a certain sense of
security and peace that surpasses that of some humans. They dance
in the wind, throw confetti in the fall, creak, sing, and reach for the
stars. They are always there for me and I feel a special bond of
kinship. Funny, one of my childhood nicknames was "Tree", which I
didn't particularly like. Although, looking back, it was very telling.
"Willow", as it turns out, is befitting, as well. I guess I will always be
a tree.

As you already know, I adore the adventure of the hunt at flea
markets, garage sales and thrift stores. It must be the thrill of
allowing my sixth sense to take over. I was out and about Friday
afternoon and happened on a garage sale. The elderly lady had just
a few dismal items displayed in her driveway, and normally, from
the looks of it, I would have driven on by. But something urged me
to stop and take a gander. One of the few old books she had
displayed on a broken lawn chair was The Space My Body Fills,
poems by Etta Blum. I walked straight over, picked it up, paid the
woman $1 and went on my merry way. She probably thought, "Well,
that's a girl who knows what she wants."

Etta Blum was born in 1908 in New York City and earned her

master's degree from Columbia University. She was married to the

Yiddish writer, Eliezer Blum. I was previously unfamiliar with Blum's

poetry, but soon became totally captivated. I felt as if she wrote

these two poems just for me. Maybe she did.

.

.

I Am the Tree

.

.

I am the tree ascending.

At the topmost branch

I've become the bird,

starting from tip to

climb into above.

.

Afterward, cloud.

Why not?

.

My purposes are clear.

.

.

.

The Fountain, the Fire

.

.

The fountain, the fire,

the smoldering,

and the embrace of love.

I touched fingers lightly

to all of these.

I became a tree among the trees

(my leaves pretending to be wings)

before going to sleep.

.

I said to the birds:

"Who will tire first,

you or the fountain?"

.

.

artwork: Weeping Willow by Claude Monet