Hamotzi: Blessing My Bread

a hand reaches towards a sliced challah
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.
 

 

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