Sundress - Wu Xia, trans. by Eleanor Goodman

The packing area is flooded with light
the iron I'm holding
collects all the warmth of my hands

I want to press the straps flat
so they won't dig into your shoulders when you wear it
and then press up from the waist
a lovely waist
where someone can lay a fine hand
and on the tree-shaded lane
caress a quiet kind of love
last I'll smooth the dress out
to iron the pleats to equal widths
so you can sit by a lake or on a grassy lawn
and wait for a breeze
like a flower

Soon when I get off work
I'll wash my sweaty uniform
and the sundress will be packed and shipped
to a fashionable store
it will wait just for you
unknown girl
I love you


- Wu Xia (2016)
trans. Eleanor Goodman

From "Faith, Doubt, and Meaning in the Machzor"

“The prayers of our tradition may speak of God as Judge, but they lead ups, instead, to judge ourselves—to undertake a searching assessment of our own nature and behavior. Releasing ourselves from a literal reading of the machzor frees us to embrace the meaning of the high Holy Days and find value in the prayers, regardless of our theological beliefs. For who among us does not need to reexamine our lives? Who among us does not have regrets? Who among us does not want to atone for a wrong that we have committed? Who among us does not want to make peace with those we have wronged? Who among us does not want to make a better world? Who among us does not have the obligation to search the deepest recesses of our soul for what it means to stand in the world? And who among us does not have the capacity to do so?”

- Rabbi David Ellenson, from Faith, Doubt, and Meaning in the Machzor

Philip Larkin - "First Sight"

Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.

As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth's immeasureable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow
Utterly unlike the snow.

- Philip Larkin