Archive
09/18/09 - (3)
Whispering
This brisk Friday evening, In these first hours of my people's New Year, The beginning of the High Holy Days — Rosh Hashanah —
So far away from St. Louis, my place of birth, I feel wholly at home, reborn to who I'm meant to be, I a Jew no matter however so nominally,
However so reformed, however so negligible, An assimilated shadow of my Mosaical shadow, Who's strayed very too far away from my heritage.
Here, I'm free to choose my house of worship — the stars — Under whose roof I'll pray, Without feeling guilty, for not wanting to attend temple,
Free to heed nature's voice, not YHWH's, And realize that, though a minor light among His chosen, I hold, within my soul, the power to alter the cosmos,
As I wander in my own Promised Land — This sacred place of patriarchal pine trees and lakes. Just now, I hear them whispering, "l'shana tova."
09/18/09 - (3)
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