The sun rises
upon my face,
warm as a loving hand
holding my cheek
like my Zayde did
looking down at me
from so great a height
I have surpassed
easily now at
five and a half feet
wearing my tefillin
trying to talk to Gd
siddur in hand
but in my heart
my still, still heart,
this whisper,
this ambivalent meh,
this dull ache meh,
this lack, this dearth,
this unfinished sigh
I hear in every
syllable’s escape
from such cold depths
I can not imagine
my Zayde ever knew
or admitted to.
Photo by Mojtaba Hoseini on Unsplash
