— The Last Blessing

An old man’s breath,
thin as lamp smoke,
and twelve sons kneel
where the bed meets the dark.
“Gather,” he whispers,
“and hear Israel, your father.”

Reuben, my first strength,
spilled water
that wouldn’t stay in the jar.
What you defiled
will not rise to lead.

Simeon, Levi,
your swords rang in the night.
Your anger scattered you.
Now be scattered seed.

Then the voice warms like coals stirred:
Judah, lion’s cub,
the scepter rests in your hand
until the One arrives
whom all the nations will obey.
He ties his donkey to the vine,
washes his robes
in the red blood of grapes.

Zebulun, the sea’s edge.
Issachar, the shoulder bent.
Dan, a serpent in the dust of the road.

Then, in the middle of the naming,
the old man looks up:
“I wait for Your salvation, O Lord.”

Gad, raided, strikes back.
Asher, bread rich enough for kings.
Naphtali, a doe set free.

Joseph, a vine beside a hidden spring,
your branches climb the wall.
The arrows came,
but your bow held,
steadied by the hands
of the Mighty One of Jacob,
the Shepherd, the Stone of Israel.
Blessing from the heavens, blessing from the deep.

Benjamin, a wolf at dawn,
sharing the spoil by evening.

He doesn’t flatter them.
Truth cuts, and it heals.
Under every word,
one promise holds the twelve.

“Lay me in Machpelah,
with my fathers,
beside Leah.”
He draws his feet into the bed,
and the river of breath
returns to its Source.

Shepherd of my last hour,
when every blessing is spoken,
find me with open hands,
still waiting for Your salvation.