In This Infinite Clockwork of Time

As the skies fade to grey,
the rudimentary question of life
seems to hang heavily in a clouded sky.
Are we meant to really matter,
or are we here, and then gone?
We are only here for a moment,
a faint breeze amidst the leaves
falls  from the shunning trees.
We are, but one ring, in a tree of many rings,
a split second snap of life that crackles in the air,
in the infinite clockwork of time.
To mention Fall is to find sleep and death.
The last gasp breath of life exhaled,
makes us question why!
Are we,  but mulch  
for the seedlings of further generations?
Hoe those rows, so straight and deep,
leave a bit of stubble of what once was we.
God, what part of us do You love?
Our soul?  Or are we Your fairest fertilizer?
Scented of crushed roses and fresh dirt,
giving back to fields of future yields.
We are, but seeds, of what’s meant to be.
A minyan of pigeons on a telephone line
bows to Thee every day at five minutes to five,
their watercolor feathers, fringed Tallits, swing and sway,
they only know You, there’s nothing else.
You are forever! We are, but a flock of birds,
flying through the Tic-Tac-Toe of jet contrails,
morphing together our hearts as we follow an inner sense,
still secret from ourselves,
tells us, we’re returning home
through the cold and snow.
You are the light at the end of a shadow
outlining life.  Your words
white with black scratches in between,
are our heart and our plough,
to give the best of us with a yoke and ox.
To be enthralled of God
Is to be captivated by His secrets.