on hereness

there weren’t enough chairs

in the growing room, open as always to the prophets

& the wind. and so as people poured and poured

like wine into the makeshift aisles, fitting into the spaces

between thin tables & the wall, a prayer shawl &

the silver staircase rail, we went on a bench hunt

through the deserted building, thirty-ish people

in their nice seder clothes laughing, walking through the carpeted halls,

surprising each other around corners & through doors

we thought were locked but actually there were chairs in there,

black folding ones with tables too & we looked

at one another & shrugged & carried them

under our arms back up the two floors like children

holding hands as the waves 

subdued themselves in great foaming walls

as the people did when we made it back, 

pressing themselves together 

so we could pass. and as we set one by one the chairs down

almost reverently, pushing them into alignment

while the sun went down over our raised shoulders,

i thought only of there, and now, and the clear sweet 

value of doikayt, hereness — we bloom where we’re planted,

we plant seeds & chairs where we land, we nourish

our land and our hearts and our tables,

smoothing the cloths gently before sitting down.