To God, who divides the waters: a poem in response to hurricanes

Nachshon ran from the narrow places, 
racing to freedom and God. 
He was stopped on the shores 
of the forever sea,
until he walked into the waters,

until they almost swallowed him whole.

Past his chin they came.

He walked; they rose.

And then they parted.

Just like that,
a miracle of divine order,
and the angels flew about,
singing sweet psalms
cheering the all those marchers onward,
until God reined them in,
showering them with shame.

The waters rise once more,
a new forever sea of
chest-high currents
that eddy and ripple and 
drag at the angels' sodden feet
and leaden wings, 
hosannas sung in a minor key.

Dear God, who moves 
upon the water's face;
who divided the waters 
and makes the rain;
Who sends the storms
and attends the tides -
do You wait again for Nachshon,
wrapped in his faith 
and in his folly,
to walk, and show You
once more, where the waters 
need to part?

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.

Like Echoes: a poem for the approach of Nisan

These are the days,
these final ones,
when I can feel the gathering
up of time and pain,
when our crying goes
opaque, flat and
non-reflective.

The animals feel it.
They low at odd times,
thrown by the plagues
and the hope dashed by
gathering stones
and obsidian hearts.

Still, I can smell
spring, like an echo.

Perhaps, this is
what God sounds like -
that barely-there
sound that rests
on my skin
like water.

We are running out
of desert and
time, a wilderness of
waiting, which is the
hardest part.
and I wonder
if our voices
are merely echoes
to God,
like spring,
or water,
and rest too lightly,
and fade too quickly,
and disappear,
like echoes do.

To God, who divides the waters

Nachshon ran from the narrow places, 
racing to freedom and God,
stopped on the shoes of a forever sea,
when he walked into the waters

until they almost swallowed him whole.

Past his chin they came,

but he didn't stop:
He walked; they rose.

And then they parted.

Just like that,
a miracle of divine order!
The angels flew about,
singing sweet psalms
cheering the all those marchers on,
until God reined them in,
showering them with shame.

The waters rise once more,
chest-high currents
that eddy and ripple and 
drag at the angels' sodden feet
and leaden wings, 
hosannas sung in a minor key.

Dear God, who moves 
upon the water's face;
who divided the waters 
and makes the rain;
Who sends the storms
and attends the tides -
do You wait again for Nachshon,
wrapped in his faith 
and in his folly,
to walk, and show You
once more, where the waters 
need to part?