The thickness of the night has thinned and the sun waits for its turn to rise.
It is between Olot HaShachar and Netz that I long to pray the most…
Those quiet hours when I sit next to God on our love seat,
Pillows squished behind my elbow,
His strong, outstretched arm sticking to the leather couch.
We sip tea of Chelbona with a hint of cinnamon,
Facing each other with our knees melting between us.
Wings of a modern day Aron.
With the fluorescents dimmed and the streets tamed,
Our eyes meet. He sees me and
My neurons diverge from their habitual paths.
My heart, peels back her skin,
Like a thick pregnant fruit finally admitting to the sweet pain beneath.
And I look away toward the space between Us…
Between the Olot of the Shachar and the Netz of the Chamah
I cannot pray.
It is the no-man’s land of time when the t’chelet and white
blend as God strings my heart along.
Instead, I sit alone with the Rabbinic Schroedinger’s cat purring in the corner,
Sipping chamomile blended with milk and honey
But unlike the sun, as I wait, I grow darker.