Watching Jews in the World

We, too, know Nature — mountains, rivers, grass,
The endless sky, the moon, the spirit visions.
We won’t be able to watch four seasons pass
Without encountering untold collisions.
The written record isn’t damning proof
That we can’t feel except down on our knees.
I sat and watched, when I repaired my roof,
The redbirds nesting in the tops of trees.
Nothing in this hard world is too demanding,
Too difficult to fathom. Watch: a man finds
The flora, fauna, and the understanding
Flows from the five senses into our minds.
It’s all in there, so I don’t have to look:
We are the heart, the People of the Book.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is the blot. I am pristine,
Unblemished, unambiguously true
To all my principles and, unlike you,
My soul has never lost that lovely sheen
They leave the factory with. I was sixteen
When I began to comprehend this stew
Of salt and sour, our chains. Without a clue
From anyone, I managed to stay clean.

You must think I’m completely addle-pated,
An innocent, prepared to take a hit
Right through the heart. So sit yourself down. Sit,
And listen to what can’t be overstated:
Forgiveness is distinctly overrated,
And I’m just not inclined to offer it.

Enter the Room

If you enter the room from the southwest,
The sun may be completely hidden, blinding
If you turn around. You must keep minding
Your direction. I’d say north is best,
But that’s just national bias. I’ve confessed
My dark Canadian roots, severe and binding,
How they weave about my stilled feet, winding
Consciously, a sermon and a test.

Inside the room, there’s little unused space:
The plaques for Henry and Elizabeth
(Too many spouses, not enough), and Death
Filling the air with scent. Here is some lace:
When you enter the room, cover your face,
Pretend no time has passed, and hold your breath.

The Kids

I’m not scared any more, since I’ve kept goats
And seen the world’s glow through their slanted eyes,
A sort of amber-coloured light disguise,
With quizzical uncertainty and notes
Of worried bleating from their exposed throats,
Horror and passion, courage and surprise
Producing unexpectedly soft cries.
Who could be frightened, when a full heart floats?

It was an owl that shrieked. I think it was,
I hoped, and prayed it was, an owl that shrieked.
Was I in fact their target, were they piqued
By my not being frightened just because
I love the quiet, unassuming buzz
Of bees, and children young and apple-cheeked?