The last long quivering
blast of the shofar;
The gates of holy repentance
inch closer, but never click-lock
I fold my tallit, greet my friends,
head to the table,
Grab some water, say the bracha,
quench my twenty-five hour thirst.
We head home, I take a quick
snack while some food is
Set out; I start our little
construction project, no real
Skills, plans, permits required
as, once completed, our
Hut shall stand just a bit
more than a week or so.
It’ll do, it’ll do, that
rickety little hut
For meals and visits and
tales of the desert
Wanderings. It’ll do
to greet visitors:
Those that come to eat and
those that come to sit
Some in the flesh, others
in spirit, and yet others
In precious beloved memory;
those in the flesh
We greet with affectionate
hugs, food, drink
Those in spirit we formally
invite: Abraham and Isaac,
Jacob-Israel and Moses, Aaron
our holy priest, and Joseph
The upright and mighty, and
David, king and singer.
Those in memory might,
or might not,
Be named, depending on who
shares our table
Inside our rickety, little make-do hut
each holiday night.
The fragile, quickly knocked
together little hut
Will not shield us well
if the weather turns
Inclement, nor warm us if
cold, nor block the wind
Should a California hamsin
blow our way, but our
Guests, those in the flesh,
those in spirit, and
Those housed in sacred,
beloved memory,
Those guests will warm
or shield us, as we relive our
Past, and awaken to
our present and pray us,
God willing, to a joyous,
redeemed more than
Make-do future. I hope.
God willing, I hope.
God willing.
Beautiful.