yom kippur

the world was gray and cold when i rolled out of bed,

the first frost of the season just barely

kissing the ground. i tied the morning 

into shoelace knots and hugged forgiveness to my chest.

the dew was still wet when i stepped through the door.

gut yontif, gut yontif! someone whispered as a prayer

fell in ribbons around us, words i have yet to mold to

my own mouth, my teeth, bared & my tongue out -

waiting for the toddler on the other side of the room to laugh.

i had never sat through a real service before,

never stood at the front & helped bless the reading

with the lake (ever blue) at my back. how do i explain

the nature of this, of the sorrow and rejoicement,

of the promises we have broken and vows we let go?

when i was little i thought of the book of life

as this huge, imposing stone tablet resting on gd's knee,

chisel poised in the other hand. this year i want to be

carved into the skin of a birch tree, to share in its memories,

its worth. let this be a binding of me

to the earth, to life, to the reddish-gold leaves whispering

at the edge of the balcony: come on. come on.

well, i won't - i refuse to give in, to trudge heedlessly

along with things i do not believe in. my mind is clearer now,

the three stars in the dusky orange sky sparkling

brighter than ever as the mountains swallow the last

of the old year to break their fast. the light is golden on the ceiling tiles.

it fades into neverending gray and we eat. we hope. we pray.

the gates close tonight. let it be so.