Neither Lost nor Found

Neither lost nor found,

like time you do not have to seek

because it’s there,

why should I care

whether words I wish to speak

should fall without a sound?

Silence, frozen, gets no boost

when pierced by words, and never heals

once they’ve been heard,

and every word

can trip the memory like peels,

or madeleines of Proust,

redeeming time just as he tried

most memorably with madeleines.

This I do, to Torah tied,

interpreting its hidden sense

with interpretations hardly stronger

than for “madeleines” my  rhyme,

though many surely are far wronger

than ones my predecessors chime,

hardly lost, like Marcel’s time

which I, with words I’m writing, found,

while hoping that it’s no cruel crime

to make suggestions that aren’t sound?