We’ve swished our lulavs until they broke
We’ve drawn the water, Sung the Psalms
Burned the fires on the hilltops
To herald the return of the moon
Now is the month of Heshvan, the time of Smelling
Smelling the lingering smoke from the new moon signal fires
Smelling the must of fat red grapes as they ferment in the vat
Smelling the figs and the dates, over-ripe, as they dry in the dimming sun
Smelling the sweat of the laborers as they thresh and bind
Smelling the oxen chuffing and lowing as they crush and grind
Smelling the pungent meats as they smoke and dry
Preserving the memory of the festive sacrifices as we hunker down.
My gut knows the months of summer are gone
But a few tender herbs remain, still tickle my nose.
We forage for the last of the green,
Knowing that soon we will be living
on only what we’ve saved.
Praying to the one who makes the wind to blow (not too hard, please)
And the rain to fall (just enough, please).
My gut knows soon I’ll be hungry
For all that summer gifted me,
Yet the autumn aromas bring me comfort and joy.
The slanting light as it hits the smoky, yeasty, fruity air
Is my delight today.
Breathe it in, a pleasing odor to the Source of All.
My gut knows, my nose knows
Inhale it all while you can.
