Inspired by the Passover song sung at the end of the Seder and a family friend who has recently delivered four male goats here in Connecticut.
Passover looms and three little goats bleat before the angel of death,
One not rejected for its’ inherent strength,
Barely breathing because blizzards are blooming instead of buds this spring,
Nature not malevolent,
This is just the way it stings.
The bite in the air stands hairs straight up,
Longing for the desert where I doled out my love,
Now it’s just bottled up,
No place for this dependence,
Contemplating the irreverence placed on agreed compliance,
But she struck out in defiance,
So I’m left to wonder:
Am I dog or stick or fire burning up?
Cannot fathom half full or empty when I’ve shattered the cup.
Feeling passed over,
Unsure where this failing came,
Which has me run away and walking alone in the rain,
Pavement rushes to meet each footfall
Echoing in the canyon of this apathy
So entrenched in spirit
Can’t imagine it no longer part of me.
The circle stands, it comes around,
The rhymes are set,
The rhythm resounds,
Bound for a reversal,
Lord knows it’s overdue,
But how to make this shattered heart beat as though were new,
Hopeful, forgetting beating born,
To open up again and work through its sores,
Letting go of the past and forget about the score.