As Elijah Was

I was dressed in rags before I came through your open door, as Elijah was, and you met me inside, luring me to wine at the family table filled with endlessness. The erasure marks of moderation, of portents, there upon unlacking counters and I awed, as a prophet's hands would, fingers gone slack, as a lulav would, shaking, as it would, in the palm of the Almighty. The night emitted warmth while the sky rained outside, the children did not ask any questions, but they wondered much, lost amid song and misdirection.

I was dressed in rags, but you brought me, convinced me to find new clothes. The sky rained outside and the unanswerable questions I had meant to solve as I walked in, well, they were lost amid song and misdirection too. I pass over what guided me once (along with the now wet towel you handed me dry at the door), the yard awash with green over my footprint traces. There is another season, one for shelter where in repose we look at the stars from the field and where the etrog, my long and yellow heart, is fit and kept in care of the harvest that fills the tables again.