For Lillya

(I decrease)

See the look in her eye.

Samuel stood by, going on about philosophies and theologies
With a book resting on the table.

Her legs hung over the edge of her chair,
Swinging in the air, never touching the floor.

Samuel opened the book and held it in his hands,
Turning to the correct page.

She played with the loose sleeves
Of her blue and white dress,
Just a little too large for her eight-year-old frame.

Samuel began to read aloud
About wisdom's amazing things.

She turned towards the window
And looked outside at the grass and the trees,
Where the sun reflected the morning brightly
Upon the hair of any child who stared.

Samuel paused and commented
About. . .something.

She put a hand to the brass necklace
Around her neck and held it between
Her thumb and her ring finger,
Playing with the links in the chain
As her eyes remained fixed on the sunlight.

Samuel rested a hand
On the text.

A smile came to her face as she slid from her chair,
As if unaware that she was now
Standing by the table,
Looking out the window at solid things,
No longer aware of the peculiar words
Coming from her friend and teacher.

Samuel stopped
Talking.

She started singing a song she had learned
From the other children on a day
Much like this one, when light from the sky
Shone on them as they laughed and played
And imagined that the great things in life
Could never be found in ink, the truth could never
Just be heard in words—not even from the mouth of a friend.

Samuel
Listened.

Shabbat X

Dry, always dry, and never enough to overcome cracking lips and fading voices that suffer from an unsatisfied thirst. All day long, as glasses of water stand on the table unused, as spectacular glasses mist from the pain of disuse, the more violent voices rush in and tear at the body of the one with no courage. So the spirit is left with a shell of a home, a house that is swiftly collapsing under the pain of a solitary murder.

They say, "Shut the gates before the flood kills us all!" But the water continues to rush into the city. The people look to the sky for answers, but all they find are poisoned arrows dropping down into the chest of the crowd, into the hearts of the children. And as the arrows strike, as the poison burns into the flesh and soul, a vague, screaming voice is heard, followed by a laugh, and covering their ears, everyone does all that is left. They cry—they cry and they feel pain. And not unlike the illumination of light, the culprit is seen clearly: violence has tricked them again.

"Assyria, you sold me to Babylon again!" The one with no courage now realizes and is ashamed. No wonder courage fled when thirst mounted war-horses to rush towards the ruthless enemy. The retaliation, the trick, should have been obvious, as it had been seen before. But no—and now, the resolution at hand, take the glass of water and drink. The bleeding tears of violence are now healed over.

Let It Go Dear, He Said into the Swift

The swift rush
of breeze through the end
of leaves and branches
into the air
we wait for the bursting.
Now onward towards the hills
of Ozark country and then
to the flat land of the orphan
and the song she sings.
My heart is a room with room
for this warmth.

But too much gold in your hull
And you sink with the ship.

And what was said
What was done
Here it is
There it will be now,
Don't you see how it can be how it was
How we are
You don't understand
You
You and me and our
Life that wasn't a love a hate
Instead of it all
Instead of a was that was what we wanted.
To be.

Give me miles of tall oak trees and a place of my own.
The swift rush of breeze
to seize the day
away from what we wanted.
And peace in the swift breeze
to let it go.

Shabbat IX

(Written on a Wednesday, in the dead of the week.)

Delight in the day—
Do not hold back.

Rejoice for peace
And know that freedom is here.

The gloaming turns to night,
But then it is burst by the bright dawn.

So tired in the evening, sleepy in the night,
How could we awake?

The beauty of creation calls us,
And it is only a shadow.

All the while the strings play out a song—
A song of love.

Not the kind of love
That makes us chase things.

Not the kind of love
That gets in my head and pushes me to pursue lust.

Not that kind of love.
Not the love that pulls me through the week.

Instead, the kind of love that makes me weep
And makes me dance.

That kind of love
That chooses the poor and the broken for the feast.

See, the one you love is caged.
Have you found the key?

See, the one you love is bound.
Do you have your knife?

Have you set the captives free?
Have you forgiven your debtors?

Are you washed by the water?
Because there is pain in me.

There is only one rest now,
And it is not about the ceremony.

That is not the sort of fast I want.
I don't want a show.

I want the things I hope for,
The things that are more than I have ever seen.

Let me count up these costs.
Let me build something real.

And may I sing for gladness—
May I delight in the day.