Rungs of ice, nay velvet rope.

Where cedars bargain breath for snow,
a sage counts gilgulim like stones.
East, mandalas grind marrow-bright,
South, mitzvot turn clay to pyre.

Westward, a meadow trims its seams,
shepherds hum grace to folded hands.
But frost-etched roots still nurse a coal,
some blight once grafted futures slow.

‘Ere hammers mute the lion’s roar,ⁱ
yet loam remembers ax and wing.
Choose: carve your rungs from splintered ice,
or kneel where velvet ropes enclave.

We shoulder stone toward stars unshrined,
sweat salts the soil, rekindles fire.

1. Technology gives leverage and power to the most intelligent and tool-adept, but weakens the spiritual vitality of all, don’t you think? ↩