My first morning word
would be thanks modah ani
for soul and breath lifanekha ruakhLit. Spirit. Some new versions of blessings call God "Spirit of the World" (Ruakh Ha’olam), rather than "King of the World" (Melekh Ha'olam).
but there’s a glitch.
Sparrows have been cavorting
since 4 am, parceling the sky,
proclaiming territories,
so my language is tangled
with their songs.
Also, my murmurs are threaded
with half-finished dream
journey. Honey, wait, I shout
into the murky dawn,
where it’s hard to behold
God’s face or anything else.
I’ve been given
visions of strange cities, hallways,
doors that swing open
to rooms void of families,
of images. This year of loss.
Every night the same dream
is sent, a blank canvas
I have no energy to paint on.
Still, I’m here sh’hekhezarta bi
which merits
every bit of grace
I can breathe in
then return
nishmati b’khemla,
raba emunatekha.
