A Broken Hallelujah

 

Leonard Cohen wrote that

life and love are

a broken hallelujah.

i thought i got it

until this morning.

 

it snowed last night

because it’s michigan

and it’s march,

which is just a cold

and broken time here.

this snow, though,

is so beautiful

it makes my heart hurt.

 

every twig, gray and unlovely

without spring on yet,

wears a white coat.

briefly perfect.

And the gray and dirty snow

standing in heaps

is briefly

perfect.

It’s wet snow, heavy snow,

and sometimes clumps

fall from branches,

with a tail

like a comet.

the clumps land with

a wet plop

i can hear in my mind.

the wonder of

such beauty,

transiently glorious,

that’s hallelujah.

 

then the office.

always reliable,

me.

because my job

doesn’t lend itself much

to working from home,

because I am always

in the office…

I won’t mind covering 

even though it is not 

my turn.

just like that,

my morning hallelujah,

cracks

and grays.

taking out the mail

--not my job today—

is just cold wind

snowflakes in my eyes

even though the weeping cherry

covered in the snow

that still drifts down

is so lovely.

 

It’s a cold and it’s a broken

hallelujah

offered now

with a tear in my eye

because my stupid brain

does what it does.

i grayed it.

i broke it.

struggling back to 

perfect hallelujah

is exhausting and 

i’m so tired.

 

if i can accept it 

a little broken,

like I accept myself 

a little broken…

maybe the universe won’t mind

if hallelujah is 

a little broken.

isn’t it all the better

for being offered

in its glorious imperfection?

we get it,

Leonard Cohen and me.

 

even broken and cold,

hallelujah is always

good enough.