Tuesday, March 31, 2015

From the Notebook of J Michel

Ziv haOlam 

It’s not a door –there is no lock or threshold.
Neither is it a gate.
It’s the kind of thing that happens gradually
and you notice it suddenly.

It feels like an accident
and the noticing is disorienting
because I’ve been focused on the getting-there,
not the where-I-am.

I want to lay myself down on the earth,
waiting for my creator to awaken.

There are trees here;
the gloaming light forms them
into an orchard that sings softly to the encroaching night.

I pray to God to let me enter and listen.
Will I be one of the three that
went mad from the listening?
Or will I be like the fourth
that entered and came out unharmed?

I pray to God that this hollowness
is actually the beginnings of wisdom.
I beg for a friend,
for a name to lift this sadness that suffocates
the breath of my soul.
I pray to God to remember me.  

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