Grandfathers Say by Naomi Shihab Nye
Grandfathers say the garden is deep, old roots twisted beyond our worry or reach. Maybe our grief began there, in the long history of human suffering, where rain goes when it soaks out of sight. Savory smoke from ancient fires still lingers. At night you can smell it in the stones of the walls. When you awaken, voices from inside your pillow still holding you close.
Freedom of Speech (what the head-of-school told me) by Naomi Shihab Nye
We would appreciate if you would not
(you know in this strange climate taking into account problems we have had misunderstandings angry parents insults Facebook postings teachers being fired demonstrations floods)
mention the president
Moon Over Gaza by Naomi Shihab Nye
I am lonely for my friends. They liked me, trusted my coming. I think they looked up at me more than other people do.
I who have been staring down so long see no reason for the sorrows humans make. I dislike the scuffle of bombs blasting very much. It blocks my view.
A landscape of grieving feels different afterwards. Different sheen from a simple desert, rubble of walls, silent children who once said my name like a prayer.
Sometimes I am bigger than a golden plate, a giant coin, and everyone gasps.
Maybe it is wrong that I am so calm.