I like Rosh Hashonah late,
when the leaves are half burnt
umber and scarlet, when sunset
marks the horizon with slow fire
and the black silhouettes
of migrating birds perch
on the wires davening.
I like Rosh Hashonah late
when all living are counting
their days toward death
or sleep or the putting by
of what will sustain them—
when the cold whose tendrils
translucent as a jellyfish
and with a hidden sting
just brush our faces
at twilight. The threat
of frost, a premonition
a warning, a whisper
whose words we cannot
yet decipher but will.
I repent better in the waning
season when the blood
runs swiftly and all creatures
look keenly about them
for quickening danger.
Then I study the rockface
of my life, its granite pitted
and pocked and pickaxed
eroded, discolored by sun
and wind and rain—
my rock emerging
from the veil of greenery
to be mapped, to be
examined, to be judged.
I have never read her before- -what an absolute treat I have been missing! ! This woman is the essence of a poet- think the classic poets are going to have to move over and make room for her. Absolutely reading more from her.
Migrating birds! ! ! With the muse of nature! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
late year pulls and pushes some memories which are often glady or sady, going through your poem i cecalled such, ..... well done by Marge Piercy