"Apostate"
All fruit in all orchards, from juicy winesaps
to shriveled labyrinths of worms rises
from the same earth, falls to the same soil.
I have seen perambulating monsters split
our bodies stem to tip. Beneath skin
or rind we all share pith and seed.
When waters pour down from the blue,
no prayer is answered, no high priest's
chanting echoes in the patter of the rain.
What sky gives, I gladly receive.
I do not prepare for a terrible war
between apples and oranges, the Terminal
Harvest, a Great Pie in a Great Sky.
How brief our time upon the branch.
What joy the quenching of the thirsty root.
Blessed be the shade and all the guests
it brings, and hallowed be the Sun.
A Cruel Farmer makes no sense.
What matters is the dawn,
which at this very moment strikes
a bargain with the night's last dew.
© 2007 Fred Longworth
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