Tell Them

Tell them I’m struggling to sing with angels

who hint at it in black words printed on old paper gilt-edged by time.

Tell them I wrestle the mirror every morning.

Tell them I sit here invisible in space;

nose running, coffee cold & bitter.

Tell them I tell them everything

& everything is never enough.



Tell them I’m davening & voices rise up from within to startle children.

Tell them I walk off into the woods to sing.

Tell them I sing loudest next to waterfalls.

Tell them the books get fewer, words go deeper

some take months to get thru.

Tell them there are moments when it’s all perfect;

above & below, it’s perfect,

even in moments in between where sparks in space

(terrible, beautiful sparks in space)

are merely metaphors for the void between

one pore & another.



                                                                                          (From the Mishkan T’filah, pg. 3)