Reading remarkable study by Jon Levenson, Resurrection and the restoration of Israel. On changing (& misunderstood) concepts of resurrection in Judaism. Reminded me for some reason of the poem below.

You could think of this poem as a commentary on the solitude of anyone who turns to making poems. Acknowledgement, acceptance, recognition can be a long, long time coming.

Better not to dwell on it. But lately I'm haunted by a (delusional?) feeling of anticipation...

The poem was written about 25 years ago.

 IN THE CLAY
  
  
 Adam, under the rain.
 Under the somber branches.
 To soften, to cross out
 the scrawl in the clay -
 evening in summer,
 buried, sleeping.
       
        *
  
 Your name is blind,
 your name, nowhere.
 Your name in the ice,
 in amber, solid memory.
 An outline under the
 compass of my lips.
       
        *
 
 Blessed be the name
 in the rainy dusk,
 on the long road
 under the bridges;
 blessed silence
 for hearing you.
       
        *
  
 Under the old rain,
 motionless, lips
 flower - a rose
 in the slow night;
 breathing, solitary,
 heavy with time.