On this seemingly insignificant day …

no birthday I know of, no anniversary,
temperature working up to hot
grass and gardens brown with drought––

on this day the temple curtain is rent
and I return to the throne of my life
after an absence of ten years from the day that I
as a non-Jew, who had known the facts

of Holocaust but never felt them, read poems
by those who did feel them, read poems written
by those who died, and by those who survived
the horror to pass on the truth of that shadow
that dogs the light.

I went underground that first day, not knowing
why I wept, and continuing to read the poems
until it became clear: I was in the bone house
of God, grieving with him for his own children.

Three weeks of weeping for his chosen ones,
three weeks of filling an underground lake
with tears. Three weeks of remembering day by
day the lives caught in the agony of those poems.

I never returned until today, had not even known
I was still missing, still there, deep in the earth;
a silver thread in my hand had kept me connected.

I know all this through no book,
except the book of my listening life
opened to page one, where it newly begins.


Glory to God in the highest
in the lowest, the basest, and
in the beautiful, Glory to God.

All of it, all of it, the high, the low
and in the middle, where we meet
to talk in tones detectable only

to Spirit who deeply resides
in each crumb of creation, human
or otherwise, no less, no more

beautiful to me, Creator of all
of life, the Source, I care for
with supernal love, tender and

fierce. At the same time, I Am
writing history with my left hand,
and you are the ink on the page.