the good, the bad, & the ugly

Sometimes I wonder if all your hands pour out
is either a gift, or a tax.
Not that your blessings are negated by curses,
but that the richer wine has a stain of bitterness
its fermentation process more costly.

I am not Job, my G-d,
but I feel acutely the loss of what your hands have taken,
the vacancies left by the demands you exact.

And though my face and skin may tell lies of my youth
the truth is, my heart is a skeleton,
and I have aged before my years.

Now, exposed as in a desert,
unprotected by any sheltering rock,
G-d, audacious G-d, you dare to ask
for this last thing that is mine.

My foundation and attachment and direction for next year
My 27 people becoming people.

And maybe you ask in trick, like Abraham and Izaak,
pero no hay importa, because either way
to follow you, the answer must only be yes.
You and your camino propio
painting the differences between peace and happiness,
between want and desire.

And I know there is only one choice
Only one way to the Peace and the Truth and the Life
so in scorn, in shame, in misunderstanding and in judgment,
in action that appears ugly, or defeatist, or whatever else
in sadness and in longing and in the nakedness left by loss:
I choose you.
I choose you.

And I say I don't understand,
but I will praise you,
though sadness may remain a thousand days more
I will praise you for you have saved me and will save me from the pit.

Only don't leave me alone, broken and barren and old at 23.
Don't leave me unprotected, shelterless in the storm.
Don't leave me.