Finding G-d

When I was a child,
prayer was not a
staircase I had to
struggle to climb, but a
natural expression that
slid through my lips.

When I was a child, I saw G-d
through a stained-glass window in
the drum of our little Reform
temple, round like the edges of a
snow-globe that has not yet

When I was a child, they
taught me the words of
the Kedushah and I
swore I could hear the
angels catapulting into
creation right there before

My feet rose to reach them,
and my heart fell silent to
listen for the Almighty’s thin,
still sound.

Every strum of the
guitar dragged another
angel into

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Sitting in a bubbled room with the light
filtering around the charcoal of my
drawing board, I found G-d.
Watching the flames of my father’s
Yahrtzeit candle devour the wax,
gazing at its steady burn dispersing
darkness, I found G-d.

Looking up at the twisting tree
branches and down at my veins
branching across my wrist, my joints
sewn together like dolls’, I found

Now I look, and
only sometimes
do I find.

Now I shield my
eyes, and only
sometimes do I
wish to see.