The Long Path Home

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted

     —Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

Once I planted a date tree
an ancient time ago, when Israel called this fruit honey,
when we started to fight for our belief that
God is holy amidst the holies, and the only.  

Soon there will be darkness as
the sun melts over
the womanly curves of the mountains, 
Who will dream of me when my sunshine is gone?

Do we ever really think it will ever end,
the music faltering,  the sunlight dimming,
our bodies falling into blissful sleep,  
until at last, we’ll sleepwalk our souls
into Her brightness and disappear?

Life will soon pass like a grand parade,
without me in the crowd, I know it’s true.
In the heavenly realm I will be, where only conjured scents
fill my joy, and there will be flowers I never knew. 

Ah, but I still smell the apple  that was on that living tree
which tasted sweeter than what I thought could be. 
I’m still amazed at floating clouds 
that come in fluffy, ruffled, atomic shapes.

There’s still the pungent mint in the air,
pollen still perfumes the wind,
the earth has that musky matter of fallen leaves, and 
wet slate has that scent of stone.

Us, together no more, no dancing  the two-step
through the mountain’s yellow and orange meadows.
No holding that 3-D stereoscope with one view,
hoping together, that the ideal can be real.

Remember when we had reached the pinnacle of a hill?
The sunset had golden trails that spilled over
the mountains like lemonade that gently flowed.
You said, “This was a present that wasn’t expected!”

Happiness must defeat the morose sense of death,
as we need to feel joy in every moment!
We’ll still be miniscule atoms
whether our animal hides be here or not.

I know this is near the end, 
my body will become one with soil’s dust,
not distinguishable  from the mulch,
a fallen flower's petals strewn along our path.

There’s always a better place, a better time
that lies ahead, I long for heaven as my bed,
where I can wander  amidst the saints,
though I  wasn’t one of them, and study 
all holy words that were ever written. 

I just need to find that foggy path,
Not a rutted, concrete lane, but 
an animal path winding through the forests,
as the Torah leads me to a higher place. 

I say goodbye,  I barely made a mark in time.
Once I was asked, how do I know that God is real?
I don’t know how She is not, I can see Her amidst the molecules,
giving birth, and She is there to give us hope.