I am with G-d in the field
for our Elul picnic and tête-à tête,
and I ask Him, apple in my throat,
So we’re doing this, Round Two?
Don’t get me wrong, I serve next,
beholden to You for sparing us
what could have been,
still fearful of what might yet be.
We just bought seats, I aver, hoping
to hear the blasts in shul with You.
It’s easier there to wipe our slate,
awash in the holiness of the day.
And yet, it may come again
to masked, outside, six feet apart or
a mikdash me’at on the couch at home.
Nu? Once was hard enough that way.
My heart pried open, tired and pained
I bare the arils of my blood-red faith,
wondering if they’ll be enough to pray
with the joy You’ve come to know from me.
But here in the field, I promise You this –
I’ll lay the table, risking nothing,
set the challah rounds to rise,
slather honey, seat our guests outdoors
so You can join us, our open book mirroring Yours.
Makhzor, pages splayed, or not? We’ll see,
though I’ll pour shots of hope and tsuris,
both the polite ones I share with the world
and those I save solely for You.
I have plenty more to tell You now,
though You’re already off to other fields
and other picnics,
while I’m left to parse
the crumbs of our repast,
imagining what’s to come.
I toss the painful crusts
of a year gone by
and back away from the holy space
You’ve left behind.
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