His name was Samuel but I did not inherit his piety.
His Hebrew name was Sholom but I did not inherit his peace.
I inherited his family and his face
And sometimes his silence.
His was the Tao of Judaism.
To parties I’m always early but to wisdom always late.
For him also I was too late.
Truly God remembers the descendants of the good:
I am not paid for the work of my hands
But inherit a saint’s pension.
In what way can I do justice to him?
By potting his legacy in new soil?
He gave love without professing, he gilded without adorning,
Overcame without struggling.
Whatever green is buried beneath the snow and winter,
This rose remains visible:
That he was proud not of his gardening but of the flowers.
M. E. Lerman is an editor by day, poet by night, and so spends his life entirely ensconced in words. A writer of both horror and religious works, he has been published in venues as diverse as “Poetica Magazine” and the “Jewish Literary Journal,” “Danse Macabre” and “HelloHorror,” and “Belleville Park Pages” and the “British Fantasy Society Journal.” He is a proud Marylander, and his blog can be found at thenewgodofhellfire.wordpress.com.