In Coastal California, fire season joins Elul.
Through the fog, sharp-fingered pines
point to a path through giant sequoias.
Already, winds pass through dry palm trees,
loosening their flammable fronds,
as shallow-rooted oil-filled eucalyptus threaten to fall.
There’s still time, we think.
Let us stay a bit longer, enjoy our local summer,
neglect the preparations we know must start today.
But each year, one warm autumn day,
we awaken to the smoke of destructive flames.
Character flaws in our faces. Each misstep magnified.
Fire on three sides, rough waters on one.
The summit obscured by smoke.
We have been here before. The same tired route.
Fire on all sides, pandemics, war.
Divisions and misunderstandings.
We lose our companions. We lose our way.
No safe place outside to go.
No way out but through.
We arrive at Sinai, but we don’t get to stay.
As it should be. The temple was never a building.
The mountain was never a place.
The Mishkan was always within.
And each year, we must rebuild.
