January 31, 2025Obiter Dicta
Those for whom no ritual applies,
no text supplies the purpose of a day,
no day becomes the rock on which we stand,
no angel trumpets guidance from a star,
no star determines who we really are,
have only vague direction with a name
or compass point, a form that we embrace.
Yet we rejoice when we do not despair
as we rejoice in neutral gifts of air.
For this we have invented our own grace.
Do not mistake it for the grace of God
which falls beyond our knowing anyway.
Of any number, we will be the odd,
a stable three or an unruly four,
the little given by design or plan.
Our crowded house, all windows and two doors,
admits the music of the earth, the fugues
of birdsong and percussive rain, the rain
that comes like breathing. We sing and play.
We learn the liturgy of each new day.
Like art. Like some old shtetl of Chagall
with floating lovers among the animals,
our world is tumbling and still, a miracle
that might be given words like happiness.
The table has forgotten gravity.
from #86 – Winter 2024