Shattered vessels.

Once broken glass glittered on pavement

In the cold November night outside shops and homes.

Now metal fragments litter the ground

In the wastelands that housed villages.

What do we do when rage and fear

Make us forget what we sought to build?

When we close our ears to the wail of grief

That sounds the same from any throat?

When we break under the weight of repairing the world,

Who will hold us?

Worlds have been destroyed before.

That time with you, that long ago time.

How much do I remember, how much did I dream?

The dough sticks to my hands,

Flour dusting the table, as I prepare challah.

The kitchen becomes warm and fragrant,

The aromas of saffron and honey welcoming you home.

When we leave for temple, we link our bare hands,

Disregarding the drifting snow and occasional disapproving stares.

Courteously, you open the heavy wooden door for me to enter

And then we part, you to the men’s side, me to the women’s.

Afterwards over the communal kiddush and hamotzi,

You catch my eye and smile.

I know you’re thinking of a sleepy morning,

Warmed against the early chill by samovar tea,

Bread with butter, and me in your arms.