Every Home is a Sukka

I live my life in temporary dwellings,
always glimpsing a star or two
through cracks in the branches
above me.
Heifetz explained
why Jews play the violin:
you can run off with it
when necessary.
It's harder to lug a piano.

I am always almost packed,
and not yet unpacked.
I stand on one foot
ready to flee.
Dwellings for me
are temporary.

This year,
let me sit solid in the sukka,
let me build it sturdy,
and porous.
Let ancient guests and new ones
enter easy
to this joyous airy house.
Let light and wind
dance through.
Let me build it strong but trusting,
and know that that since nothing is forever,
and every home of mine
is a moveable feast
I can sit solid,
symmetrical,
in this present sukka,
two feet on the earth,
smell the etrog's fragrance entirely,
wave lulav evenly
to all the wooden corners,
to the earth below my bare feet,
to the stars calling down through grapeladen branches.
Let my voice rise
through spaces between the pomegranate boughs
to harmonize with my sisters' voices
in other lands.
Let my soul be large enough
to dwell squarely on the sukka's earth floor,
with roots in heaven.