49 toward the Omer

God, when you speak to us, speak of vastness. Speak of knowingness, babies' eyes. Speak of yellow flowers. Speak of the smell of rain through trees. Speak of night, of the crooked line between beard and neck. Speak of goodness. Speak of simplicity. Speak of okay. Speak of okay.

48 toward the Omer

I look forward to the trampoline to come, feeling my feet held by you among black fire words before they release me up again like a person throwing a dove from her cupped hands into the air with a soft push for encouragement, trajectory, instruction for the alonetimes

Maybe that's why we're supposed to take our shoes off in holy spaces, so it's easier to notice the caress, the slight bounce. Why wear clothing before you, God? Help me remove this raincoat, these galoshes, I didn't mean them, I'm not sure how they even got there

47 toward the Omer

hod shebmalchut

A year ago today I wrote about singing melody instead of harmony and now I read this poem to a different collection of melodymakers and I notice my process of coming into the group, and, relatedly, into my own, standing on this rock with a friend friend

I walk away from the campfire and for once am okay with the beauty of the song continuing on without me. Am I continuing on without the beauty of the song? Thirty minutes later, a mandolin, a guitar, two voices, a stack of music, carpeted floor, peace.

46 toward the Omer

netzach shebmalchut

I hold in beyonddimensions where points are planes, moments eternities. Let's hold hands now. It's noted. Shabbat as niggun: Sound changes enduringly. Shabbat as spinning paper: Drops of color swirl, remain. God says you gave it I took it there are no takebacks. Perfect, I say.

45 toward the Omer

tiferet shebmalchut

Rolling a bookshelf down Beacon Street. Dress, bandana, running shoes. Pavement irregularities. Two men assist at tough spots. The week encircles. The moment rises up, all else falls away. I push with a foot when the dolly runs upon edges. There is nothing but this.

44 toward the Omer

gevurah shebmalchut

There is something enticing about being one who stands selfcontained, solid from the inside with malleable edges but nothing really changes, a woody core with leaves on her fingertips and places for people to nest in her hair, the wind buffets but she smiles

(h/t The Silken Tent by Robert Frost)

43 toward the Omer

chesed shebmalchut

Multireligious Service of Thanksgiving. The day before graduation. A whimsy, those streamers on poles, primary colors whirling pinwheelwise ahead of the distinguished huddled presences of divinity, unfurling anticipations, joyful souls clothed in black with accents of velvet and sleeves perfect for hiding telephones

I take the stairs two at a time in my ushergarb, poke my head in. It is time, I tell the faculty. Endearing, their chatterful coalescence into linestanding, bumblingly oblivious to the solemnity below, these magnificent doctors, these kind grinning kings and kingesses