On the day before your birthday snow began to fall.
It covered lounge chairs and bamboo plants;
it covered the golden calf
you have been dancing around for forty years.
Two more to go until the name of G-d.
You will be as you will be.
The backyard lies pure and untouched.
Tomorrow morning when your soul returns,
the white will be stained with footprints and salt.
I do not want the blood of your bulls
but it is hard not to speak with you on your birthday.
It is hard to keep our hands pure
when something we love lies defiled on the floor.