MOSHIACH

A swan from the world beyond the stars.
Cool breeze against our cheeks.
Meadows and mountains.
Forests of white pine and hemlock, oak and birch and maple,
Autumn orange and gold and red.
A blue pond.
The white bird lands smooth as silk. Paddles to shore.
Hand in hand we follow the sounds of laughter to a field where I played ball as a child of eight.
Used to be an empty lot.
Now, sweet roses and daffodils, perfumed jasmine and lavender, cosmos and poppies,
Scented orange and lemon trees dot the periphery.
Slides, swings, seesaws.
Black, brown, white, Asian, girls and boys.
All God's children.
Smiling, playing together.
Not poor little lambs.
Not lost.
No need of God's mercy.
What the world should be.
Elevated souls.
Higher light.
Has the Moshiach truly come to this place? Yes.
Is he present though unseen? Yes.
The pages of the torn Talmud open before us:
God, concealed from the mind, revealed by the heart. Yes.
The decayed walls of the Temple of Apollo:
Called or not, God always present. Yes.
Millay on a mountain:
The soul splits the sky in two,
The face of God shines through. Yes.
But where was the messiah
When millions of souls went up in smoke?
When Luftmenschen became Luft?
I have no answer.
I just know that we are alive and these children are alive.
And we are doing the best we can with what we got.
Trying to.