Devotion

The heart can think of no devotion 
Greater than being shore to ocean 
Holding the curve of one position, 
Counting an endless repetition. 
—Robert Frost 

Every Tuesday morning, sky dark, 
I rise to the temple. Today, by the 
time we reach the Garden, the 
actors need help with their lines. 
I am reminded of a school play, 
our drama teacher whispering 
our lines off stage, and us stuttering, 
poor acoustics, munged beneath 
spotlights. In the fallen world, 
the room warms. I fiddle with my 
sash as Eve’s last words rise like a 
fresh tide across bright earth, 
while under cover of veil and fig 
leaf every Adam and Eve cry.