The air is full of particles,
ash from the smoke of fires to the north
Last night the sky an ungodly color
shifting orange to yellow and back
A kind of stillness that in California
means earthquake, whether it arrives or not
*
In the dream a man stood up.
Nothing unordinary about him,
except for the half circle of people
(I hesitate to call them disciples)
He raised his hand Sparks flew
I have never succumbed to full acceptance
even as I envy those who can follow
without questioning: the Amish boy
in Shipshewana, who rejects the tractor
in favor of plow horses in the field,
the Chassidic woman who handed over her son
to be circumcised, not hiding in the bedroom as I did
*
It is true that God was put on trial at Auschwitz
He did not fare well
*
I was taught how to question
not how to believe
*
We are told there were two sets of tablets
one destroyed, one saved
Fire and cloud
*
We are always carving a new golden calf
searching for solace to convince ourselves
we chose right
*
I scratch out letter from branches
the aleph bet in the three languages
I pretend to know
Compare their shapes, asses their durability
*
The flakes thicken, carpeting the meadow
coating prairie flax and cornflower
I look upward but no prayer is answered