To dance between raindrops

Where light glistens into prismatic gems

To touch the edge of the wind

As it plays among the clouds

To become one with the song

The Universe hums in its silence

To know I am

Even as my yearning

Light and shadow
forever dance

Through my days and nights
Like salt and pepper

the Universe sprinkles
A little here

A bit more there
And sometimes it’s just too much

saltiness overwhelms me
I begin to sway and bob

Without knowing why
Until the sea welcomes me home

Darling Friends,

Thank you for your patience as I learn the ins and outs of this new computer. My previous system was not courteous enough to let me know our time together was over, but just rudely abandonned me. Hopefully this new gadget will prove a kinder writing companion, and we can get back to the joy of interacting with you all.

For now, here is my offering for Mother’s Day.

Blessings and love to you!

***

Every Day

Every day

A miracle approaches

Timid as a doe

In early morning mist

Carefully testing the air

for possibilities

Seeking

Always to find

Safe haven for the unborn

Promise she carries

*A repost for the end of National Poetry Month*

Only crumbs in the cookie jar.
And the ice cream carton rests
Limp and exhausted in the trash.

April is nearly finished,
But poetry endures forever.

My children have grown up and moved out,
their shouts and play are mere echos
until grandchildren come bounding in.

But poetry lines my shelves,
plays hide-n-seek
in the corners of my emotions,
swirls me about in rhythmic strands,
delights me in solitude.

Sweet on my tongue,
bitterly questioning,
sacred irreverence.

Yes, April is fading.
Poetry endures forever.

one songbird
perched high in a pine tree

one yellow daffodil
broken just below the bloom

one flash of sunlight
across my kitchen wall

or filtered
beam Through wispy clouds

or glistening in dewy grass
or upon sparkling spider’s thread

one quiet moment alone
and I’m with you again

They haven’t seen me in a while.
They smile,
say, “What have you been doing?”

I want to say:
listening…
praying…crying…

mourning…dancing…
singing…learning…
loving…growing…becoming…

I reply, “A little
writing,
and you?”

*In honor of the first night of Passover, a repost from April, 2016*

Every year Passover brings us together—families and friends, congregation members and guests, Jews and non-Jews, adults, children and teens—to tell a story. And whether the story is factually correct or not doesn’t matter half as much as the way the story is experienced in a living voice amid the passion and drama of everyday modernity.

Because we’re not just telling a story. We’re asking a very important question: What’s the difference?

This is no mere apathetic shrug of a question, but a deep, heartfelt inquiry.

In fact, the Biblical telling begins by asking the question through the lives of a few brave individuals who chose compassion as their means of social disobedience. The midwives Shifrah and Puah who risked their lives by rescuing newborn boys from Pharoah’s death decree, and the unnamed daughter of Pharoah who adopted a Hebrew infant as her own son, each knew something bigger was at stake. By acting outside conformity, they became the difference.

Miriam, too, took a risk when she stepped out of the shadows to inform Pharoah’s daughter about a wet-nurse for the Hebrew foundling. Her words of strength and joy continued to make a difference as the people journeyed through the wilderness.

And the Seder asks the question again and again, What’s the difference?

Between this night and all other nights?

Between leavened bread and unleavened bread?

Between the ways our children learn?

Between one people’s yearning for liberty 3000 years ago and those still yearning today?

And most important, what difference will each of us make in the unfolding of our lives?

Seeing, in Three Pieces

Somehow we must see
through the shimmering cloth
of daily life, its painted,
evasive facings of what to eat,
to wear? Which work
matters? Is a bird more
or less than a man?

*

There have been people
who helped the world. Named
or not named. They weren’t interested
in what might matter,
doubled over as they were
with compassion. Laden
branches, bright rivers.

*

When a bulb burns out
we just change it–
it’s not the bulb we love;
it’s the light.

~ Kate Knapp ~

The Holy Longing

Tell a wise person or else keep silent
for those who do not understand
will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive
what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm waters of the love nights
where you were begotten, where you have begotten
a strange feeling creeps over you
as you watch the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught
in the obsession with darkness
and a desire for higher lovemaking
sweeps you upwards.
Distance does not make you falter,
now, arriving in magic, flying
and finally insane for the light
you are the butterfly, and you are gone.
And so long as you have not experienced
this: to die and so to grow
you are only a troubled guest
on the dark earth.

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe~