Some might see a blessing
as pointless as banging my head
against the wall.
Look at the headlines! Shootings,
wild fires, tornados, bombings. . .
Clearly no one is listening.
No one hears my pause
before taking a bite of bread,
buttered in my well-stocked kitchen
by two nimble hands
connected to a breathing body
seated in a cushioned chair
on a crisp sunny morning.
No one hears.
Except me.
The pause is mine.
Hamotzi. All mine.