Psalm

With coals of juniper, Lord, with ripped willow clumps, with lodge-pole pine and fir, with wind-wrack and slash, I kindle an all-night fire to mirror You. No longer waning, no longer falsifying chimes. No longer smoking out rot, or eclipsing Yeshiva scholars. No Lord I know what is within magnified. Stars will just have to wait to eddy through gates of night. Little swirl, mimicking nebulae, mimicking galaxies, which turns for no apparent reason other than to cast and recast the whole as it whirs and whirls, knocks and ticks at three am in a snit to proclaim itself not as You but it in You. If I can strut a note, can rack wobbly pins, balance rocks into signposts, waves into a grass mass or two, it will hear itself structuring time. This oddly chopped watched dimension quarters us into early middle late. Each day scans and wanes, some hope knowing its moaning is mourning what it erases. The and stamped by the sea each second. Be with it and what it erases ceases to toll.