A smooth, glass-blown orb,
Breathed into life by
a turbaned woman in her lair
Of chimes, mirrors, and dust,
Of blue gates which grace Galilean hills.
"The City of Jewish Mysticism" they call it;
A former fishbowl of sagacious hermits,
Observed by all, witness to naught
Save the Oral text.
Breathed into life by
a turbaned woman in her lair
Of chimes, mirrors, and dust,
Of blue gates which grace Galilean hills.
"The City of Jewish Mysticism" they call it;
A former fishbowl of sagacious hermits,
Observed by all, witness to naught
Save the Oral text.
Epiphanies
Would echo
Off the cobblestone roofs and blue gates
To His blue,
Like nebulas,
Hazy, humming catharses,
Of essence, principle, and life.
Upon their heavenly arrival,
Those sparks of Proverbial wisdom
Would not to each other,
"A Tree of Life is She."
The smooth, glass-blown orb,
Encircles a tree,
off whose trunk burst,
Blue buds,
Spores of Torah,
The smallest unit of life.
And it sings around my neck.
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