morning blanketed with silence
quietened by slow drift from a wintry sky
harsh bite of a seasonal chill
hazardous for the unwise
the town breaks from industrial clangor
no busy rush on the streets
no rumble through buildings on Main
what does it offer that we do not already have
stillness rests on the breath
noise a sound to be joined
this is only the day that is
every day is that
three times I came to his door, three times
knocked and knocked until he answered
the first I brought nothing but a quiet entreaty
he turned me away with a shake of his head
the gray skies of autumn and a colding wind
made me shiver as I walked home
the second I offered familial connections
he paused in memory before refusing again
the creak of the ship with its salt-sodden chambers
surrounded me briefly as I stood on his sill
the third I came armed with words that surprised him
keys to a knowledge I should not have known
reluctant but intrigued, he invited me in
a cup of tea, and thus we began,
thus we began, my teacher and I
weary of navigating this terrain
the constantly shifting landscape of malfunction
physical breakdown and decay
eyes do not see clearly, nor ears hear
breathing an onerous labor and disruptive
of the smallest ordinary act
confusion steals former abilities away
by turning the mind into an unnavigable maze
institutions stymie their designated intent
with such regularity as to make them suspect
as they heap more suffering on those who presume
to ask them to perform their basic task
this casual cruelty surely accidental
life is not purposely unkind
though to those who struggle in the harshness so ready at hand
this matters not
sometimes there seems little remedy and yet
be with each other, witness to the end
hold and give comfort, all are in need
just this is enough
just this is all there is
just this
if offered the chance to talk with a god, I would decline
capricous beings, prone to moving in mysterious ways
no mystery really but play to bewilder those who believe
a reality show writ on larger screen with dramatic weather
a distraction for deity and faithful alike
watch and take part if you must keep so busy
meanwhile I have things to do
I practiced from the very beginning
machines made me breathe
strangers touched me with love
for my first three months these sustained me
gave me reason to return again and again
I did not know I was not machine
unrelated to the always present gentle hands
I have never forgotten those earliest teachers
and now dying gets easier every time
For years I had a Lladro Bar Mitzvah Boy porcelain,
Elongated, in gorgeous muted blue and cream.
With each move I would wrap it carefully in newspaper and cloth
And place it gently in its own separate box.
Aside from its beauty that soothed my heart,
It represented something might have been,
Were I born to an earlier generation and a boy.
Perhaps I would have worn a somber threadbare suit and yarmulke,
A thin yeshiva bochur, always with my nose in a book.
After one difficult transition I opened the box
To find that it had finally cracked into several pieces,
Too delicate to bear so many travels.
Sometimes on a rainy winter’s day, I remember my Lladro
And can almost hear the murmured thrum within the beit midrash
As I study with others in the fading December light.
death a friend since birth
light fades soon, a shadowed ridge
waits a feathered wake
And does it even matter if this year
My menorah remains on the shelf?
When the memories of all the candles we lit,
A story for each night, a small gift given,
Crowd in every night for eight nights?
This is how we remain a mishpocheh,
Passing these traditions from generations down
And then hand to hand among friends.
Such things cannot be destroyed by bombs or guns.
How many candles would I light this year,
And what would they mean?
When I last kindled just two for Shabbos, I wept.
What used to herald time set apart,
A space made holy by rest and community,
Now fills me with grief and loss.
Quietly, I put my menorah away.
Alone, how can I even contemplate this?
What do we do,
When exploding stars used as clocks
Prove that the universe expands?
We need not chart the exquisite tick of quasars
To know that time dragged slower in the past.
We judge this by rapid heartbeats
And the quickened sprint of passing days.
What do we we do,
When irregular galaxies stand revealed
By lonely clouds and dark tendrils?
We need not travel atmospheric parsecs in the vast
To observe these circumstances.
We see them in saddened eyes
And the weighted drop of tiring shoulders.
Perhaps such knowledge of time and space
Can allay our fears and sorrows.
We are not unique after all.
We shrug off that burden and rest with all things.