I Promised My Rabbi

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

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