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The Kabbalah of Static Electricity

Since cold has set in I have been electric.
What are these sparks,
Snapping and crackling from fingertips and elbows?
(I guess that’s why it’s called a cold snap.)
In the dark they sizzle —
These trifling forks of lightning,
Yet I feel no lighter,
Nor smell the burning brimstone
That real thunder bolts hail down.
When I was young I used to give them
Metaphysical meaning, assuming it was the sparks
Of creation that I released with prayers,
Making their way back to God.
I reasoned throwing off all these electrons
Here and there like the withered blooms
That trees lose in spring
Or dry corpses of leaves in fall
Would eventually lessen
My burden of earthly matter (even sins),
And allow me to fly
As if these flares would reduce
My collective molecular weight.
Bu arcing has no weight,
Only energy, Only light.

I was like the child on the end
Of “Crack the Whip”
Being yanked about by these jolts, off my feet,
At times becoming airborne.
If the static air had anything to say about it,
I would be flying like an afterthought of the divine,
But stabilizing the structure I am attached to —
Like the tail on a kite —
The lowest flying part of the Sephirot
and the first to get tangled
In branches of our uplifted biosphere,
Anchoring everything above me to earth.
And when my hair does rise —
Ready for takeoff —
Like a halo shimmering on the saints,
I feel blessed.
In that moment more connected
To heaven than earth.

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