On feather filled pillows
he reclines easy as evening
crowned by a Cantor’s tower
castle shadows on sable hair,
white robe billowing
as if a cumulus cloud.

In sundown sky he presides
over minyan of five sons and wives
who sip sweet wine four times
with stained glass blessings,
children on shins a threshold
away, ask why in four questions.

Each year on the same full moon
he appears with Elijah, cloaked
in melodies at mystery’s doorway,
a virtual choir of crystal vibration
stirring psalms and folksongs,
midnight verses accelerando.

Like ten plagues passing over
a violent sea split in two, forty years
wandering to a land promised,
this family around that table
on a night different from all others
nothing less, a quiet miracle.

—

Steve Pollack hit half-balls with broomsticks and rode the Frankford El to Drexel University. He advised governments, directed a community housing corporation, built hospitals and public schools.

Poetry found him later. He serves on the advisory board of the Montgomery County Poet Laureate program and sings bass with Nashirah.