For the seventh autumn in a row, The landscaper receives a written request: Trim the foliage outside 2 Pardes Street. As before, enclosed is a generous check— An amount far greater than the task should merit.
Uneasy again, he tries to address the excess, Reaching out to The Beresit Foundation – The name embossed in gold at the top. But no address appears, no number to call, And nothing, as before, turns up in any search.
He returns to Pardes in his aging truck And tries the garden door. Locked as before. He knocks, then peers through the wire lattice mesh And waits. No answer, no footsteps, no voice. Yet the garden within is tended to perfection.
He finishes the trimming as in years before. The result is fine, though the wall still wears its grime, So, unbidden, having a cleaner and water for his next job, He washes the wall himself, free of charge.
Finished, he gathers his tools and prepares to depart, But before he leaves, he pauses to reflect on his work, And there he sees the garden door ajar.
Soon it will be seven, and the bridge master will raise the drawbridge for the first time.
The gears will bellow as the plates bend upward tall-masted ships released at last will ease through the opening churning the waters as they pass soon after that the plates will descend again and the line of waiting cars long now will pour onto Cathedral Street hood-to-trunk hand-to-horn jockeying for too few parking spaces this will play out every half hour again and again and again till seven p.m.
Vilano Images 