Bleak the Florida dawn;
quick our clasped goodbye.
Planes don't wait,
mothers do.
Don't worry, I'll be fine,
you said.
So, nomadlike,
I folded my bedroll
and stole away:
Gulped the juice you poured,
pressed your bosom's
remembered cushion
(firm with brief vigor of
borrowed blood)
And dashed
heavy-lidded
like a child late for school
to the cool silent womb
of my rented car.
Your dark form, dimly glimpsed,
waved from the shrouded catwalk,
face forever masked in memory.
Did I know then
you'd never wait again?
Oh, why did you wake me, mother?
I hear in my heart
the music of memory
the song of my soul.
And so it ends —
with a whimper
and a smile.
Anger was easier.
Steel-cold,
I foiled your thrust
‘Til one sweet stroke
slid through
my guarded heart.
So deftly done.
Oh, can’t you
see the wound?
Silent woods,
darkly dense,
skirt secret shores.
Unquiet, alone
I trust my feet to an unseen trail
toward open sky.
Silhouettes:
Foliage forms
inkblot illusions.
Unrooted, astir,
I trust my weight to a leaning trunk
at waterside.
Soundless sparks:
Fireflies flit
on winking whims.
Unwinged but afire,
I trust my cry to unhearing trees,
enduring stars.
The synagogue is quiet; it is late.
Each worshipper
has said a weekly prayer,
emerged in safely sanctified estate
and turned to greet a neighbor
on the stair.
The air is still; still lingering I hear
echoes
of a Hebrew melody:
My forebears call
from far another year —
My spirit sings returning harmony.
Seven flames rise faithful in the dark;
aloft
a lamp burns single,
without cease;
The sacred Torah rests within the ark.
The Sabbath has begun. I am at peace.
Yom Kippur, 1973
The people came.
Shell-shook by distant danger
to temple walls
again
they dumbly flocked.
The rains began.
An outraged spirit
pouring wrath
on a stiff-necked people?
still
the rain beat down.
The light went out.
A hushed and huddled people saw
the ark go dark,
then
flicker on.
The people sang.
Besieged in their frail citadel
pitched against peril,
ever
strong in song.
Yom Kippur, 1973
You ask me why we Jews
are so upset
by distant struggle.
How shall I explain?
You’ve turned from your God,
I from mine — and yet
My people bleed;
and should I not feel pain?
Shall I take you proudly
by the hand
and bid your footsteps
follow to the place
where my forebears chose
to take their stand
Or had it chosen for them —
by whose grace?
Where is this soil, unseen,
I can’t forget?
Who the sons and daughters
of the land?
Another summons answered,
challenge met —
Can you ever hope
to understand?
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