Poem: Yom Kippur

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.

From “A Perfect Circle of Sun,” Swallow Press, 1971

Linda Pastan’s latest book of poems, “Insomnia,” will be published by Norton in the fall of 2015. She is a former poet laureate of Maryland and in 2003 won the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize for lifetime achievement.