For Rabbi Ari Lev
In our makeshift shelter
light shimmers through bamboo stalks,
dappling our shoulders and arms.
We bend to ancient texts.
Rav Yehuda said kindness to guests
is greater then seeing
the Divine’s face.
Can this be true?
We’re used to sabbath singing,
filling rooms with wings,
wings that beat up to the ceiling.
This space is not solid,
there’s no roof against rain.
Anything can enter,
winds or a stranger.
And if we were more porous,
we could carry our shelters around us,
invisible but sturdy.
I try this in the coffee shop,
standing near the cashier.
By my side, a woman wavers, half bent over.
White hair wreathes her head like a crown.
Please go first, I gesture.
No, I’m deciding, she says with great dignity.
So I order and wait
then she orders and waits, teeters.
Would you like to sit?
I choose words like berries from a prickle bush.
There’s an empty chair in the corner.
I’m fine, she says. Teeter.
I tell my soul, don’t overstep.
She’s not my guest.
But I stand close, offer my name,
a structure, a framing –
and she offers hers.
After small talk, what moves
is a soft wind.
Light shimmers.
Watercolor by the poet
