Russian River

A Russian River, maybe the Volga, frothy waves,
Overhead three ravens cross the winter sky, then
swoop down on an ice glazed branch. Three princes:
two Muslim, one a Jew, while earth’s red shadow
eclipses a satin moon.

At his place, we trudge up fifteen steps, freshly shoveled,
A lit candelabra welcomes us. Inside guests gather,
I greet paintings remembered on other walls,
carpets remembered on other planks, a piano,
hauled from home to home. Glass of Russian River
in hand, I propose a toast.

A gaggle of students huddle on a leather couch,
one I’d splurged for years ago, quacking, quacking,
flipping cards across a cedar chest, when into the room,
swoop three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew, while earth’s
red shadow eclipses a satin moon.

Three princes: one Pakistani, one Afghani, one Iranian,
"These three always hang together,"  he tells me. I greet 

an Indian woman with diamond studs, a young man 

with one leg only, a guy half Chinese - half American, 

Daniel, son of Holocaust survivors, his wife Tova, 

their son Levi, of ten months.

We’re here to celebrate Andy's birthday 

come round like a full moon. Against all odds, 

he’s alive. The piano has traveled, so have I.  

I raise my Russian River to the heart - by far 

the most ancient traveler --- I am enraptured 

by the moon come round in all her beauty
for yet one more birthday in late February.