The Gift of Rising - a poem for Shavuot

It was an ancient quickening -
older than mountains,
whose bones dug into the earth,
deep and long.

The gift of mountains is stone,
a sacred canvas
of unbending inscription,
holy even when broken.

It was an ancient burgeoning -
older than heat or light
an exaltation of urgency,
of joy and revelation.

The gift of light is sparks,
dancing in black fire
a cascade of stars, like
God's laughter tumbling upwards.

It was an ancient and tidal moment -
older than oceans
whose chaotic rhythm rushes,
like breath, like life.

The gift of oceans is water,
cool and sweet; it holds
the secret of mercy
and the bitterness of despair.

It was an ancient rising =
a burst of green
and laden boughs.
It was bending
that did not break.
It was fire
that did not consume.
It was sweetness
pouring forth like a mighty river.
Here beneath the mountain,
watching fire and darkness
and the rush of rain -

It is a gift of binding,
a tree of life,
beckoning me to hold fast.