Friday, August 19, 2005

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the water-trough,
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.

1 Comments:

Anonymous grounded reaper said...

"Did you say 'Apple'?"

Before the dawn
I spread the essence green,
And dappled sun with grief
Where pastures lie.
I gathered berries
Ripe before the blue,
And fallen before autumn into dew.
Before the call of the whippoorwill was heard,
I chose the apples far beyond my hills.
Before all goodness could be held and sealed
I left the fold
and wandered lost and proud
Until God brought me to my knees at last.
And there indeed I have my harvest found,
Though never beyond reason, only sight.
For I am dappled, fallen sure, and spilled,
And out of fold with self, and man, and God,
And see that I have always been in part,
But never known it in the silent heart.
At last with Job
In dust and ashes free,
I leap, I dance, I sing such mystery.

8:09 AM  

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