Whenever she curses

the verkakte computer,

or calls someone

a pain in the tuchas,

or tells me “you look

oysgeshpilt, geh

schlafen, geh schlafen"—

then oak-trees

start to belly-dance,

then withered roses

blush and bloom,

then Spy Pond's water

turns to champagne,

then birds of the air

and fish of the sea,

whatsoever walketh

or swimmeth or flieth,

fin and feather and flesh,

all exult and sing hosanna,

hosanna in the highest—

and the voice of the turtle

awakes once more in a

land famished for grace.