by Andrew M. Greene, 30. March 1992
In the kitchen, chometz cowers in corners
and crevices, patiently waiting for me to join
the annual battle. I breathe deeply, hold
the cool breeze in swollen lungs, then slowly pass
hissing exhaust between clenched teeth. This job overwhelms me; I spin
on the worn heel of my sneaker and stride
outside. Leaving the crisp, chilled, climate-
controlled cucoon of my apartment, I pause
on my porch and sniff the stale scent that portends
the first shower of spring. Dust hovers in the air, dankly
hanging where I can sense its stench, stagnant, smothering, suspended,
waiting for the rain that dances through Brownian space far above us.
Heavy splats of water dribble from the sky, smacking
my hair. Carefree, I skip between damp patches of concrete walk.
The first thunderclap retorts across my path, echoing from building
to building to building; the crescendo of its applause crackles. I
leap (like the year) over a stream of melting snow, listening
to the clouds sounding the toll of winter's passing, charging
each other for the privilege of the next blast.
I follow my feet, watching God wash
his chometz. Once more at my porch, I peer inside the door, return
to my Pesach preparations. With the window yawning wide open, I scrub
at grime and grit; it crumbles as the thunder
mumbles its agreement.