11月 23rd, 2005
O Lord grant each of us our own ripe death,
the dying fall that goes through life–
its love,significance,and need–like breath.
For we are nothing but the bark and burrs.
The great death we bear within ourselves
is the fruit which every growing serves.
For its sake young girls grow their charms,
as if tree-like music issued from a lyre;
for its sake small boys long to shoulder arms,
and women lean to them to listen and inspire
these not yet men to share their heart’s alarms.
For its sake all that’s seen is seen sustained
by change itself,as if the frozen were the fire;
and the work of every artisan maintained
this myth and made a world out of this fruit,
brought frost to it ,wind,sunlight,rain.
And into it life’s warmth has followed suit,
heart’s heat absorbed,the fever of the brain:
Yet when the angels swoop to pick us clean,
they shall find that all our fruits are green.