My first morning word
would be thanks  modah ani
for soul and breath    lifanekha ruakh
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but there’s a glitch.
Sparrows have been cavorting
since 4 am, parceling the sky,
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proclaiming territories,
so my language is tangled
with their songs.
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Also, my murmurs are threaded
with half-finished dream
journey. Honey, wait, I shout
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into the murky dawn,
where it’s hard to behold
God’s face or anything else.
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I’ve been given
visions of strange cities, hallways,
doors that swing open
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to rooms void of families,
of images. This year of loss.
Every night the same dream
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is sent, a blank canvas
I have no energy to paint on.
Still, I’m here  sh’hekhezarta bi
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which merits
every bit of grace
I can breathe in
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then return
nishmati b’khemla,
raba emunatekha.
