The Kneeling Heart

A poem on the 8th night of Hanukkah

Who delivers dreams of fathers overseeing their villages,
who brings tears to the eyes of fathers
lest they become stagnant in the healing body,
who blesses the father with tears and daughters,
and who brings a father home?

If my heart had knees it would kneel now
to pray to the God of flickering flames.
If you could see the flight of these candles
reflected in my eyes, would it be enough
to guide you through this wilderness?

I think of the fathers
whose daughters only wanted to dance in the desert,
or who were murdered trying to protect their families,
or who were hauled from their homes into cheering crowds.
And I keep thinking of the father who just named his son,
and how some blessings shine brightest in the darkness.

Oh God of ancient miracles and all the new faces
that look like you, surely you live in the birch trees
I saw in the night, those trunks transformed
into homes so fragile the wind could blow through,
bark flapping in the open, there where I saw
a father on his feet, facing forward in full regalia,
without uttering a word telling his people:
We will not be moved.

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