Yom Kippur fresh in mind, a man in suit and
kippah strides with purpose across the park
to synagogue as the early sun pierces
in long streaks of gold and crimson
through the maple canopy. Rockets fall
on Israel, bullets riddle cars, infiltrators
invade homes and take children hostage,
hundreds on both sides lie dead.
Sit, face the rising sun, count the dew drops
sparking with fresh fire on each blade of grass.
Watch how the fires trickle down each stem
to penetrate the ground, God’s way, and chase
through rhizomes to feed green fields that
rise as a growing mass of worship. My God!
If you should evoke such love from fields of grass,
how much more from man as one to be so loved?