Chelm

In Chelm, a hayfork may be
  a menorah—its nine tines glistening
    skewers of flame.

Planted, treelike, in the middle
  of the temple; handle buried
    in a bucket of sand, it sheds

light that does not go out, the light
  of transfiguration.
    Fallen

from a wooden wagon, the fork
  is not forgotten: seeing it blaze
    in the synagogue, a farmer cries, “That’s

my hayfork!” but the Rabbi
  knows better—know the world
    is made of scattered sparks, shards

of God, hid in the midst
  of things—
    hayforks, beggars, boots—

that leap into flame
  at Wisdom’s touch.
    So the people of Chelm

keep their menorah,
  though (as the Rabbi knows), wisdom
    does not come cheap

and the farmer goes off
  singing God’s praises,
    eighteen zlotys glowing in the pocket

of his tattered coat.