Upon the days twixt Rosh Ha-Shana
And Yom Kippur,
We are commanded to ask,
For our sins, forgiveness
From those to whom
We have committed them.
But when I think upon this,
Upon the year now passed,
Yea, I do find sins and many
But none so grievous and yet
Not too grievous that I cannot admit to them
Without great penalty
That I feel obliged to oblige tradition.
Rather what dwells upon me
Is less my sins
And more the opportunities
Passed by by me
And those which appeared but for a moment,
A flash in the pan of fate,
A horse,
Quickly Sprinted
Across the great green field
Of love,
The sun shining upon its back
And glorious mane
As it trampled past,
A fleeting moment
An eternal memory,
Leaving deep impressions
Upon the ground,
Ones that will not clear
For years, or maybe ever
Even as I try
To move past it
In at least some ways,
For I refuse to be
As lonely as I was
And Am.