Our holiest of Holidays / Poem: Goldenrod

Today we celebrate Yom Kippur, the holiest of the Jewish holidays. I called my dear friend Freda who expressed to me her great pride in being Jewish, stating that Jews are not a warlike people. Bloodshed is abhorrent to us. Our holidays are family-centric with beautiful liturgy found in our prayer books.

My friend Rob said he just learned that the time between last week's Rosh Hashonah - or the Jewish New Year - and today, Yom Kippur - is when God decides whether to inscribe us in the Book of Life or in the Book of Death.

I know that, Rob, I said. He remarked that I was raised a 'conservative Jew' - that's a denomination - in Cleveland, Ohio, where we were taught that particular belief. On Yom Kippur I would cower in fear that God would smite me down and was comforted by my father who said, in most instances, children do not die.

Who can understand the ways of the Lord? For they are incomprehensible to us mortals, try as we may. I wrote my friend Fran Hazam today that the Lord led me to buy a new pair of shoes for my w - i - d - e feet. My daughter and I plan a trip to the Mediterranean so I must begin collecting my gear.

If God so chooses I shall make the trip. We are but small beings who try very hard but thrive only by his mercy.

There are so many questions. So many mysteries. The biggest is, Does God exist? Unfortunately it's not something a jury can decide for us, each person is on his own.

TO EVERY SEASON THERE COMES GOLDENROD

Much maligned beauty
your dusty fingers so like our own
point southward
where birds vanish
as does the sun

Accompany us, Goldenrod,
down the aisle
into the emptiness
of winter,
shine on
one last feast for the honeybee
and myself
my color-craving eyes

Once we thought you mean
thought it was you
who caused the twitch and sneeze,
but no, it was Ragweed who raged
like nettles in our nostrils

Fair nature
a lass to whom
all must bend,
to whom
all must show their fair form
then droop,
and pass,

Now, Goldenrod,
it’s your time to shine
across meadows deep
to remind us summer’s spent
to remind us soon we’ll be alone
with the sparrows
and the hidden voice of the wren
calling from unseen places.