Wrapped about my index finger
Bind my spirit
To my people I am betrothed
To the crafter of this silken garment
I owe more than fealty
I looked to my bureau
My loyal seatmate in woven
Yielding sacred garment cloaking
Mother, son and God.
A stack of bills in your stead!
Every Sabbath I searched
Frantically furtively forlornly
Stripped of my derech eretz
When in shul do as the Romans do.
When I lead
A threadbare Ziontalis testifies to
I pull open one more box
A pink golden glow speaks
In a whisper heard across
Four thousand miles
Four thousand years
The breathless shout of the needlepoint
Crescendos as the lid recedes
Revealing accidental, holy contents
Bless the soul that crafted your bounty
Bless the soul that preserved you safe
Bless the soul that revealed you
Returned as if newly binding
Mother son God and people!