for the Ethiopian baby. My Shia friend says,
lentils are blessed by seventy prophets. Holy is the name
of the first to meet the sunrise and the last to see sunset.
Today, I am the first to rise. This is what comes,
what goes, what is endless, what must never end.
My Italian neighbor was picking lentils.
He says the round coin-like shape is considered good-luck:
the beginning of a prosperous new year.
He is so rich, he shares with his neighbors.
He does this until sunset, stars falling as lentils,
blessings from seventy prophets.
About Martin Willits:
Martin Willitts Jr's forthcoming poetry books include Waiting For The Day To Open Its Wings (UNBOUND Content), Art Is the Impression of an Artist (Edgar and Lenore's Publishing House), City Of Tents (Crisis Chronicles Press), and Swimming In the Ladle of Stars (Kattywompus Press) He is the winner of the inaugural Wild Earth Poetry Contest for his full length collection Searching For What Is Not There (Hiraeth Press).
I have read many of Martin Willits' poems on various sites over the years and this, I think, is my favorite, not simply because of how good a poem it is but because of my love for yellow lentils in the dish called Dal prepared by folks from India and Pakistan. One can make a meal of it with a mound of rice and a piece of naan.
ReplyDelete