Every year,
In its twelfth month,
As Ruakh playfully begins
To blow hametz
Out of our soul,
We are afforded
The twist of surprise
To invert every descent
Into its truest
Ascent.
The laser-edge
Of joy
Severs off
What had threatened
To kill us,
As laughter
Becomes King
With Keter
As crown.
Nestled in prayer,
I did not expect
My overarching
Response to spinal surgery
To be one of
Gratitude and love,
Humility and joy.
What had been hidden
Became revealed
As the key
To our people’s
Millenia of survival.
We know the story
Is not over
Until the blessing
Has been found,
Intoxicated joy
Flowing freely
Generations
Upon generations:
Simkhah
Upon simkhah,
In celebration
Of what it means
To be become
Truly alive,
In the knowledge
That we know
Nothing
At
All.
