Phylactery Straps
It takes a while, a year Maybe more, six days A week, not counting Shabbat and the holidays, Unwinding, wrapping, winding Back up the black leather Phylactery straps, around Bicep, forearm, hand, fingers, Then around the case Each day to make them supple And soft after purchasing A new pair of tefillin Or replacing the old Worn straps With stiff new ones. Eventually, as they soften And one learns the new Straps physical quirks — Tighten here, loosen there, Redo every ten or twenty or thirty Minutes into the service, The daily rites requires Less deliberation: The wrappings become Second nature. A morning missed, Other than shabbat or a holiday, Starts flat-footed, Incomplete, emptied of That moment of yearning For grace. As the straps soften, become More supple, over time and with Discipline, the ritual formula By which one begins the Art of wrapping, and the start Of the day flow into each other, Smoothing the way, easing and Focusing one’s heart, encompassed the Arm, and the shawl enveloped body, And, if it all works right, maybe one Day out of six, the yearning for Grace unfolds into a glimpse Of the Same.