This month shall be for you the beginning of months.
Exodus 12:2
Mercy named the months
for we could not swallow
a minute’s luster—
the perpetual,
witnessed pale,
tempered in part
across an hour—
so we might savor
goodness,
its power,
that saturates
our years,
its centuries—
their millenia.
He wrapped us in time,
to sip at its table—
for if we awoke to
to infinite feasts of
memories,
gorged destinies,
their blue moons—
our bloated,
liquid bodies
and engulfed eyes,
would erupt,
(from flickering
disbelief)
into drops of
stars spanning
the never-ending
skies.
So bits of seconds
and seasons
are bound—
then dispensed,
delicately,
into a
vanilla scent,
a quiet kiss,
an icicle’s drip,
a morning mist—
hemming
time’s intent—
its dimness
and its
brillance.