Every year,
In its twelfth month,
As Ruakh playfully begins
To blow hametzÂ
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 laughterÂ
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 keyÂ
To our people’sÂ
Millenia of survival.
We know the story
Is not over
Until the blessing
Has been found,
Intoxicated joy
Flowing freely
GenerationsÂ
Upon generations:
Simkhah
Upon simkhah,
In celebration
Of what it means
To be become
Truly alive,
In the knowledge
That we know
Nothing
AtÂ
All.
