Lo, my seasons of no gathering, leaves shedding or land emptying.
There are seeds.
But there is no water.
Only hopelessness and longing.
G-d, lift the shloshim of my heart.
Not this season of loss.
By my inability to lift the veil and see:
For human life is not the longest wheat field, or the planted things patiently waiting.
But the paths of our ancestors, who join us in our waiting.
Sarah, cursing and laughing.
Hagar, with thirst still yearning.
Miriam, without timbrel or dancing.
And Hannah, ceaseless and crying.
Adonai, sow within me the knowing:
That my grief is in great company.
And I?
I am with the ancestors.
They are always close by.
And I am never.
Not ever.
Alone.
