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.

I Will Carry the Rain: a poem for the Counting of the Omer

I will carry the rain
in all its gentle letting down.
I will let it run through me,
so that it waters all my secret places,
and watch each drop
fall from my fingertips,
to wash over the earth,
Mother of us all,
and holy.

I will carry the rain,
and gather her waters,
and walk shoeless
among my mother's bounty,
towards the mountain of fire and ash,
whose voice is thunder,
and heart is mercy
and binding is love,
and holy.

Ten Words

What ten words rule you?
Which move you?
Bring you forward
and return you?
What ten words
bow you
and bend you
and fill you full?
Which serve you,
or demand that
you serve?

Which call you
to your journey,
to dive inward,
move outward,
and carry you to distant
trackless shores -
a barren wilderness
that is more vast
than sky,
more filled
than stars
and time?

And yet those words,
those ten,
they carry you -
From all that
you know;

Ten words lift you
into a boundless unknown.
bring you to self;
bring you to God.


For Shavuot
based, in part, on Exodus 34:27, in honor of "Aseret ha'd'brot" - the Ten Words

Forever of Us

Maimonides and Rashi;

Spinoza, too,
and Buber.

I saw them,

just over there,

talking the deep talk

of this and that,
while the Partisans
sang drinking songs
and laughed at
the rumbling,
booming gravitas
of God's own mountain song.

Miriam tapped her timbrels,
in time to the thunder,
calling us all to dance -
Sarah led it,
and Deborah
and Ruth
and Yetta, my grandmother,
who could not go to school
because she had no shoes,
but she danced
that wild and weary
dance, holding hands
with Esther
and Golda.
We all danced,
and trembled.
I could barely hear
that tinny counterpoint
that threaded itself
just beneath the
deep and blaring bass
that shivered the air under
the deep bones of the Mountain.

Let Aaron and the
others play with
their tinker toy gold!
The rest of us -
the long chain of us
that stretched into
the forever of us -
we could feel it:
the fierce and jubilant
joy of it,
the not-yet-but-
almost of it.

And then the words came.
Oh! they came
like rain, like riddles,
Like ropes of silk,
And caught some inner light -
Some spark left over from creation -
And flowed like water over rocks;
All those words of binding and gift and grace,
They carried us,
And caught us,
And led us,
The long forever line of us,
The words that created
the All of us,
led us
Home.

And fly

Count your things.
Add them up.
Amass a pile of More.

Grab and gather
in forty-nine steps,
the firsts
of your herd,
your horde
your heart.
Count them
in countless succession:

All your best -
Your hopes.
Your sins.
Fill your tent;
load the baskets and bags
with counting
and counted riches that
smell of excess
and succulent
ripeness:
A bursting of Ready,
sweet and sour and sharp
all at once
on your tongue.

Count them all.
Gather them up;
Breathe in
seven breaths of seven
and lay them at
the waiting altar
that stands in the shadow of God.
Lay your counted glory there -
an offering:
a psalm of blessing
and hopeful benediction.

Lay it all down
and fly.