Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.
There is a moment right before
the flame flicks out, when the charred wick
pokes though its flush of blue plasma–
where instead of a fading flame,
I see the remains of a dying star,
one that will soon engulf its planets,
transform them into splinters of wax
and send them forth in sputters.
I see, on those little cinders,
the smallest of men, debating dogma,
berating their fellow orb dwellers, right till the end.
And then the flame is gone.
I look to the next candle in line,
still alive with yellow glow and hope
that something will again make sense.
*This poem was previously published in The group of ten adult Jews needed to read from the Torah and to recite some of the most important communal prayers. In Orthodox communities, a quorum of ten men is traditionally required. Today, most liberal Jewish communities count all Jewish adults as part of a minyan. Magazine and is republished with permission.