There is a rose that opens each Kislev,
too late for ahavah, too early for evel.
Petals pale as siddur pages
caressed in the soft light of winter.
too late for ahavah, too early for evel.
Petals pale as siddur pages
caressed in the soft light of winter.
My grandfather used to say,
“Jerusalem has no roses, only stones
that bleed when the skies open.”
Here, the rose bleeds quietly into frost
a small midrash
on exile and survival.
“Jerusalem has no roses, only stones
that bleed when the skies open.”
Here, the rose bleeds quietly into frost
a small midrash
on exile and survival.
Even the angels must bend down,
melt the snow in their hands
to smell its sweet fragrance.
melt the snow in their hands
to smell its sweet fragrance.
