Yom Kippur
In the autumn garden,
I chop away dead yucca spires,
their white bell blossoms distant
in memory. My fingers comb ivy
and vinca for fallen leaves that crumble
in my hands. I think of crimes
against my loved ones, count my sins,
pull at spider webs and chickweed,
stubborn at the root.
I make my piles, gather the detritus
of trees into bags set against the curb.
I sweep the sidewalk, edge a trowel
