Candlesticks are meant to be fit for a queen;
Glass or crystal,
Intricate and fine.
And ours are rusted,
Discoloured in parts.
But as the flames danced,
Beneath the aura of shabbes,
The canopy of warmth,
I realised there was more to life than crystal,
And I drew the light towards me,
Wishing this could have happened before.
Why wasn’t I standing here
basking in their glow?
But that’s the past,
And we must live in the present.
Writing of shabbes on a Monday morning
Doesn’t seem right,
So I’ll leave these words here,
Maybe I’ll click publish-
Or wait until Friday night.
I’ll try to look forwards,
And not dream of shabbes…
The summer shabbeses I miss so terribly,
And pine for as we plunge forwards,