Bezalel was skilled in the combination of the letters by which the heavens and the earth were created.
He could only stand in the shadow
That was his name,
But the silhouette was sacred,
Not in God’s light-it blinds, it kills,
But His shade refreshes creation,
Each day re-moistening
The parchedness of the mouth ,
In the dew of early morning.
At the window I see creation
Ships of white floating
Beneath the translucent blue waters of the sky,
Waters that welcome not fish, but
Angels, and rising wisps of smoke.
Below, branches , bare and brown ,
Bending in the biting breezes of a winter’s
All I have are words, letters, and
A heart that seeks the right combination
By which to unlock the secrets of the soul,
God’s secrets that await the messianic arrival
Of the right word.
And when a momentary revelation
Crackles in the cortex,
To the thunder of the heart’s sudden thumping,
Like Bezalel, I clamor to combine,
To click one letter to the next,
Like atoms and molecules and cells
Exploding in the space of one’s soul-
And he saw all that he had written and it was…
Was it a creation that was good, but not good enough?
Tov-good, but never tov meod-very good.
We can only stand in God’s shadow, never in Her light,
And so my zeruf otiot- my mingling of metaphors
Can never touch the purity of Bezalel, whose zeruf was zaruf,
A composite of the spotless, a sanctuary untainted by
A mortal’s desperate reach for immortality.
Looking up, the clouds inch away,
Soon to vanish like all things in the sky,
Except for angels,
They have a task to perform,
God needs their praise.
And we must be grateful,
Content that we are a mere hairbreadth lower