Tremble before my love.
What grips a wounded life
softens against balmy touch.
What withdraws from flame
hardens at the scent of you.
Green apples never soured
so sweetly at my bite.
Ripe flesh never split—
refreshing juice, quenched;
whittled core, so soon browned.
How many futures have I slain
in resurrection of my love,
eager witness to brim heat,
honest devotee to this restless corpse,
whose first rays promise defrost,
whose hollow cavity too small—
your milk left to spoil
in your issueless breast,
to nurse a phantom who
tolerates no green pathways.
But how gracious a terror.
How brilliant a shadow
that eclipses enemy eye,
face down in the mud—
a shelter against senseless storm
and shrinking mid-morning sun.
Our own darkness to fear,
vantage to laugh at the withering,
orchards where two fated fools
walk hand in hand, under His watch.
