Reflections by Rabbi Karen Martin
Published in the March 2026 issue of Tikvah Topics
A few days ago, my husband sent me the comic to the right from xkcd, created by Randall Munroe. Since then, I’ve been thinking about the poetry of William Carlos Williams (1883-1963). His poem “This is Just to Say” is referenced in the comic. Williams was an American poet, author, playwright, and physician of British and Puerto Rican descent, with Jewish heritage (among others).
I first encountered Williams in high school, when we read both “This is Just to Say” and “The Red Wheelbarrow” during an American poetry unit. Only later did I discover his book of poetry Spring and All (1923), a deeply human work that pushed past the alienation of its era in search of wonder. I find that sense of wonder most poignantly expressed in this poem:
Spring and All: III [The farmer deep in thought] By William Carlos Williams
The farmer in deep thought
is pacing through the rain
among his blank fields, with
hands in pockets,
in his head
the harvest already planted.
A cold wind ruffles the water
among the browned weeds.
On all sides
the world rolls coldly away:
black orchards
darkened by the March clouds —
leaving room for thought.
Down past the brushwood
bristling by
the rainsluiced wagonroad
looms the artist figure of
the farmer — composing
— antagonist.
We are given this image of the farmer rising before dawn on the cusp of spring, alone with his thoughts in the pouring rain. The land is a blank canvas; the farmer, an artist poised with his brush. The poem reads like a cold, moody, almost oppressive idyll until we reach the final line, the final word: “antagonist.” Looking back, the hints are there: our farmer/artist “bristling” and “looming” over this act of creation.
In William’s poem, creation and cultivation become a threat—an act of destruction that pits the farmer against the land. I find myself asking: What is being destroyed? The fields are blank, or blanketed by brown weeds. The orchards are black. Darkness, wind, and water converge, and I cannot help but hear this echo:
וְהָאָ֗רֶץ הָיְתָ֥ה תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ וְחֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י תְה֑וֹם וְר֣וּחַ אֱלֹהִ֔ים מְרַחֶ֖פֶת עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַמָּֽיִם׃
The earth was unformed wastes, and darkness was upon the deeps, and the wind of God stretched out over the waters.
Like our unnamed farmer, we are taught that God’s act of primal creation was intentional.
In Proverbs 3:19, we read:
יְֽהֹוָ֗ה בְּחׇכְמָ֥ה יָסַד־אָ֑רֶץ כּוֹנֵ֥ן
שָׁ֝מַ֗יִם בִּתְבוּנָֽה׃
God founded the earth by wisdom
And established the heavens by understanding.
Creation, we are told, was not haphazard but deliberate, just as the farmer plans out his fields and orchards. In Bereshit Rabbah, a book of midrash—rabbinic discourses, stories, and law derived from the words of Torah and Jewish texts—our rabbis build on this idea of intentional creation. They teach that even before the world was created, God created Torah. Proverbs 8:30 tells us that Wisdom (understood by the rabbis as Torah), was with God at creation as an amon. “What’s an amon?” the rabbis ask. They suggest Wisdom was a caretaker, a nurse, and finally, they suggest that Wisdom was with God as an artisan, declaring, “I was the tool of craft for the Holy One, Blessed Be He,” Later, in Bereshit Rabbah 1:4, we read that Israel, who would receive the Torah, was already conceived before the creation of the world.
Despite this idea of careful planning, Bereshit Rabbah also tells us that the angels questioned whether the creation of humanity was wise. In Bereshit Rabbah 8:1, when God consulted the ministering angels of Mercy, Truth, Righteousness, Peace, they broke into factions and argued in favor (Mercy and Righteousness) or against (Truth and Peace) humanity’s creation. While they were busy arguing, God created humanity. There are days, I imagine, when we all have such debates. Yet because of our capacity for Mercy and Righteousness, we’re told, God created us.
Still, the poem’s darkness and the farmer’s antagonistic presence loom. To plant, we must first break and turn the soil creating a soft place for seeds to take root.
In Angela Buchdahl’s memoir, Heart of a Stranger, she reflects on the Hebrew word mashber, meaning crisis, which uses the three-letter root שבר—“to shatter” or “to break.” In Middle Hebrew, the word referred to a ‘birthing stool.’ In Biblical Hebrew, mashber was associated with ‘birth’—the opening or breaking of the womb. From this, Rabbi Buchdahl teaches us that crisis—shattering—can lead us to renewal, if we can summon the strength to push through.
In language that feels both simple and surprising, Williams conveys an astonishing depth, demanding much of his readers. That is not to say that he consciously intended these echoes; as readers, we inevitably bring our own lenses to the work and to the process of meaning-making.
As we stand on the cusp of spring, with March rains nearly upon us, what are we creating? And what must be broken to make way for the season’s renewal?