Tkhine in Tishrei

There always will be song in this place
where basil and wild mint grow

green by the dove's first call
where old ones walked

bent and wrapped in bark fringes
knotted and tied for fingers to caress

songs rise up as prayers enfold us
in a tent of shawls

fire huddles where wind
cuts each sand grain to a facet

the same place we cannot go back to nor forget
how living creatures turn into their own shadows.