by Richard Epstein (Washington, DC)
It’s Indian Summer. My Thai wife
brought home matzah ball soup
for the evening meal. In the morning,
I woke to the aroma of matzah brie
on the kitchen stove.
She knows, with strawberry jam, I will
eat all she can make. As I type this,
I hear an interview with Warren Buffett
somewhere in the background.
This year, I have ignored Rosh Hashanah.
At least, I thought I did, until now.
But like Warren Buffett, Rosh Hashana
plays somewhere in the background.
I hear a ram’s horn call out its warning:
Wake up! Prepare! To clear my thoughts
I went for a walk in the woods along Sligo Creek.
I saw a young man dressed in black standing
in the middle of a narrow footbridge reading
from a prayer book. As I passed, he dropped
a handful of bread crumbs into the stream.
Long ago, a holy man dressed in white
would lead a goat into the desert to freedom.
A ritual or cure? But, like wiping chalk writing
from a blackboard, a residue remains.
For Rosh Hashana, I was taught to examine
past actions and deeds. Define the behaviors
that be best cast off and those to save.
With defiance, pye weed, goldenrod and asters
shout a last hurrah. The tall grasses bow
to the shortening of days and impending cold.
Like Indian summer, I prepare myself for change
in this grand parade. I reflect back, then forward
to another year.
Richard Epstein lives in the Washington DC area and is active in the Warrior Poets sponsored by Walter Reed Medical Center, the Veterans Writing Project and he hosts an open mic venue for veterans and friends of veterans on the National Mall.