Barking off the rip, a war angel will put anger to the side. Split open the pomegranate with calloused hands and see the fruitfulness in laying down your thanks and burdens. May the merits be as numerous as the seeds. So a tank shell will settle, release, and surrender. It is merely a machine idle in stone and wind. It will be good to go out in the fields and pray again, beneath branches filtering the light. And try not to lower the hands from the eyes, even with what the piercing of sight beholds. It is your duty to be held in intent. In breathing stillness, held as both wound and balm, you will clean and nurture the naked body with water. Through a beautifully veiled warmth, it will pass with the pounding artillery of a thousand suns. Hair loose, touching the back like cursive weather. An instance of intimate defense, a quiet insistence that some things are not meant to be taken, only kept. A brief hammering. Blessed is the crisis that made you look into Shamayim. It awaits those who brave the climb. The Siddur is held with the same hands still stained with fruit. I feel everything and so I am grateful.