When the sky is orange
at nine a.m., it looks like dusk.
It’s the transitional time
Of twilight and morning
Of nothing itself.
On Yom Kippur, in the liminal space
Are we dying or new shrouded in white,
in the unknown of a changing self,
meeting God and emerging maybe?
The sky is blazing orange with smoke,
How can I know
is the sun rising or setting on our world?
