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.

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.

For Nate, on Mother's Day

He brought me a crown of twisted green stems and sudden bursts of gold.
It smelled so sweet, like summer, like wine.
Like his smile

He was sticky-fingered and glorious
King in his realm
Of wooden trains
And pumpkin ghosts
That were banished by a sorceress
Who vanquished his fears
With a kiss of stardust.

He sipped at the seasons
Tasting the air
The clouds
Feet tripping so lightly along the path
The hidden path less taken
The dusty road sheltered by leaves
The color of heartbreak gold.
He gathered wildflowers and weeds
To grace the table and litter the doorway
That he passed through
Unnoticed
To some far away place
Only a heartbeat away.

He saw visions of giants
And spies
And he tumbled through the wilderness
Accompanied by drum beat and flute song
And he found the gilded treasure
That lay hidden in shadow
Transformed by magic;
Dull and lifeless dross
Transformed back to treasure
By his pure heart.

He found treasure and brought it home,
A crown of twisted green,
Smelling of summer
And laughing, he placed it on my head
Gentle.
Solemn.
A wondrous gift,
Breaking the spell of my solitude.