If Shabbos is a bride, why are there tears?
the candle dances, a flame a whisper,
the smoke the wispy remnant of a prayer;
a daughter’s dreams a mother’s half-held hope:
Heaven may not have them, we’ll gather sighs-
angels do not need the soul within the heart.
O, daughter, your tears refract the world,
the blessing flows between your covered eyes
the healing of our future in the pass
of hands that circle, gather in the light.
Healing comes in the blink of an eye -
seeing worlds in multiples of life -
tears sowed in sorrow shimmer in Shabbos 
when daughters sing and mothers rejoice
 -there is a generation yet to come
 an awe-filled wonder of how we’re here-
 oh woman of valor, survey the years
 and with your smile, sanctify the spheres.

Friday night the shtetl shul prays silent:
stars - Shalom Aleichem - welcome angels -
peace descends in waves of words and candlelight;
after prayer the men linger in hats 
and formal coats and talk of crops and croup,
of news and nu, vos macht du - how are you -
the gentle time before the journey home.
Unnoticed slips a not-yet-man, a boy,
a student of the day, to the stand
where the leader sings and in loud self-discourse
declares his name to the wall, or heaven -
his voice thunder trembles through the talk,
a lilt off-key a warning note the soul’s
askew. Held-breath we listen to the rave,
a mind in quiet rage against itself,
declares the Shoah of its soul in words
that shock the Shabbos in us all - inside
‘my struggle’ turned around. He ends as if
in prayer, head bowed, descends, raven-rimmed eyes
turn, search, expecting nought, or all, a plea 
perhaps. In echo of the still small voice
the rabbi says ‘ok.’ The not-yet-man
with thanks, deflates, and prattles through kiddush,
a Sabbath band-aid on his tortured mind.

I hold my grandson’s hand as my father
held mine, palm to palm with the warmth of life
in the fingertips of reassurance,
each step a question or pointing “look” - 
Oh how many whys a day beholds
trucks and cats, jackets and trees - 
time flickers, and I think of all the prayers,
word searches for the soul, I have struggled
to solve, and here in the gentle grip of trust
the answer flowers in the here I am
the impulse overflow that stills the thought.
How simple when my father’s shadow walks
in his namesake’s joy and I in ghost-mind walk
as zaydes walk on Friday nights, when heaven 
and earth have come to rest and angel songs 
are all that’s left, and blessings for each step.