It’s enough. We sing at Passover. Dayenu.
Tapping hands on the table in rhythm.
If the miracles had ended when the Red Sea split.
If there’d been no manna, no Sinai, no Temple.
Dayenu. Enough. To have gotten out of Egypt.
We sing every year in chorus, 15 verses
listing satisfaction, without request for more.
Dayenu. Your bloodwork is the same, not worse.
Dayenu. Your hair did not fall out.
Dayenu. We took a walk by the pond at sunset.
You weren’t too tired for dinner.
Dayenu. We sing now for as long as we can.
originally published in Jewish Literary Journal
