THE VINEYARD
Even the greenest fruit blushes
to know
His touch, unlocking
all the dormant regions
nestled there till an instant’s
spellbound forgetting quickens into
autumn, its sugared load
under the watch of His unseen eye
leaving behind such oozings
bodily crushed
until those hands had emptied us
long
last, and wintering resumed—
ROMANCE
if that silence near
the end of your voice
is not an anchor
after hitting bottom
its chains unspooling
their entire length
the stillness onboard
swallowed by the sea’s
unrelenting rhythm
the two of us going
nowhere yet inured
to this place the way
seabirds overhead are
drawn to crusts
flung over the rail
as waste or delight
it makes no difference
as long as they are
able to salvage
what hits the surface
and does not sink
|