Between candles that burn out and the light that remains in the heart,
Winter stands halfway along its path,
and the imprint of Hanukkah still drifts across the windows.
Yet already the pulse of a new soil is heard:
the buds of Tu BiShvat whisper beneath the soil; the anemone (kalanit) returns,
and the cyclamen (rakefet) rises like a miracle beneath the rock,
while a trail of moisture terrain scent promises a new beginning.
Even in the deepest darkness, sparks of hope are flowing.
The wind is cold, but the days grow longer like a thin thread of promise.
People walk along wet roads
seeking warmth in one another,
for in this land — striving to return to itself —
every small leaf that is born restores breath.
The trees relearn how to lift their branches,
and so do we:
between candle oil and fruit-bearing soil,
we discover that light and growth
can dwell together,
in a time of transition.
