FROM DUST
Mindy Schwartz-Brown
Late Summer air, like a shroud, stills all. Like marble idols, the fallen, settled, the stench, blood, bodies twisted, strewn limbs, floured in holy dust.
This will be our story, the home long sought. We“ People of the Book” will have too many, sad. Home is still occupied, where the Temple once stood. God’ s grass trampled.
Joseph and his brothers, Jacob, Esau, their wives— We hurt our kin, jealous, like all the nations that envy our covenant. Where is God now? Faith dissipates when He disappears. Some say He stays, Eternal, weeping for us as we grieve.
We believe our Father has gone away, And the world will prey upon us, orphans. Every generation will know this pain. In His absence, the people of the Earth will harm us. They wonder why we still long for Him, follow His Laws, the One who has left us hostage.
The weight we carry, history and heartache, hollow. All we have is each other. The single gift we can offer, ourselves. Starving, we measure to serve all, like the manna, Sufficient against starvation, despair.
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