A river of ink, racing over falls
Squeezing through tributaries of veins and roots
Finally crashing into a column of parchment
Resting, then smudged, as it tries to make sense of the world.
I puzzle over tracks above and below
Where thousands preceded, a finger dug into the bank
For a hundred years of eight days, a new river its sacrifice
Waiting for me to dive in.
The quick beginnings of a poem in honor of my student, who will be making her Torah chanting debut in about an hour in honor of her father's yahrzeit. I love introducing adults--people like me, finding their connection--to this smudged ink.
How was the debut? Who was more nervous, the teacher or the student?
I loved this poem, aa...
George, please see the next post!
And thank you, Regina, as always...
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