My ancestors prayed
their faithful hearts out
in a little shul
in the Steppes.
Prayed to their god
of gods in a language
as old as the civilization
they hoped their prayers might heal.
And still it snowed.
Snow over the roof
and through a window
they could no longer close.
It covered the floor
and oaken benches
hiding the poverty of place.
Snow on the sacred scroll
they recited from memory.
They chanted and swayed
and shivered in the deadly cold.
They prayed through the icy winters,
never asking when the healing
might begin,
or for a sign from the heavens.
And still it snows.
Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of Centered Magazine and was the first poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. He has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes multiple times. He has six volumes of Poetry. One, Brooklyn won the Sinclair Poetry Prize.
