Yom Kippur

By Linda Pastan

A tree beside the synagogue atones
of all its leaves. Within the ram’s horn blows
and sins come tumbling down to rest among
old cigarettes and handkerchiefs. My sins
are dried and brittle now as any leaves
and barely keep me warm. I have atoned
for them before, burned clean by October,
lulled by the song of a fasting belly.
But sins come creeping back like wayward girls,
and leaves return to willing trees for spring.

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A tree beside the synagogue atones
of all its leaves. Within the ram’s horn blows
and sins come tumbling down to rest among
old cigarettes and handkerchiefs. My sins
are dried and brittle now as any leaves
and barely keep me warm. I have atoned
for them before, burned clean by October,
lulled by the song of a fasting belly.
But sins come creeping back like wayward girls,
and leaves return to willing trees for spring.

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