On the Eve of Yom Kippur
Autumn turns my thoughts to rain, to pebbled ice
To sins of late and sins of yore.
Each deed is but one brick of scarlet,
Together they make a wall of shame.
Exiled, I flee the wind
I hear not her voice drifting.
I hide within the trees
Yet my heart is wet with searching.
I want summer, quiet and still,
But the twisting road is always the better story.
They say surrender is winter white—
Like the Day of Atonement
Like Adam, on the day of his making
And later, his unmaking.
I stare at the sky, not white or grey,
The setting sun is the color of war.