Young smiles in womens bodies, my daughters,
money for holiday outfits, hair ribbons, shoes.
While counting out paper and coin, I think how we hope for
Complete, cost free, clemency for penchants developed
from last years adornments;
Acting insouciantly, wronging many
people, conjecturing gossip, a loud,
Daring to believe that denial might
actually be fungible for bad behavior,
Inviting minimalization, its twin,
rationalization, random sorts of blather.
Also, encouraging habituated
busybodies to pull caricatures out of teapots,
Even as we forget to
hide other strayings, more alternate spheres of accountability.
Its funny, perhaps sad, folks can perceive gross errors as
simply traffic accidents.
Truth, though, evidences our
incomplete efforts at adopting excuses children.
Bad things, wound
about imaginations best costumes, remain choices not easily
Rectified, now or then. Notwithstanding, our spates of bowing, swaying,
Moaning, crying, every disillusionment sticks. Not bolts,
trusses, manmades save.
Of course, we can elect to delay, til half
way round the year, all atonement.
Although sefirahs small steps invite change, discern
between fiction and verity,
Tweak us, fell juvenile understandings of
timeless narrations, of adaptations,
We stay surprised when various gifts
linger undeveloped, when hurt
Buds like almond blossoms, when lifes
rigors prove exhausting. Discipline,
Heavenly help, more, are altogether
needed for settling the uninhabitable.
Meanwhile, my daughters stand secure, absolved, released.
Unwrapping such articles as I could never choose.
Their holidays bound forward brightly, colorful,
No lack of splendor detours those steps.
The girls mirrored credit, like new skirts, fresh
blouses, matching socks,
Proliferates easily in their days, their nights,
To such youth, fasting is as feasting is as festive dancing.
Celestial music sings them. They know peace.
Their futures strum with grace, with uncommon concord.
Specifically, theyre okay with offering amends.
This year, maybe, I, too, will get new garments. Ill
Of trees at dusk, breeze, birds, sunshine. Ill
celebrate praying by quorum, sit outside
After services, accede to our
leaders with wonder, smile at other women, say
often. Perhaps its truly the case that my domiciles perfect,
lifes as it should be, except for my arrangement of flaws.
My moments, on balance, no matter their ilk, might in fact be
My deeds, too, might illuminate. My tears could fill angels
cups, could be brought
Before the grandest throne, measured, found
Passable for a twelve month span. My words could be good
Maybe, this year, Ill suffer none of the usual ripping
A renewed maiden, Ill know no incendiary rending before
No painfully rigorous scribbling out. My bad spots could just
I finger dress fabric. My girls trust. They have confidence
in good as good,
Plus that the Otherworldly Scribe is compassionate,