The orchards bloom in myth
as a personal belief,
or the possibility of fruit, as the trees enleaf
and order solemnly
defiance of the certain frost.
Monastic thoughts design the rind,
which shelters flesh and juice in chancy weather, and
perspective the lonely voice, the errant adversary
who walks within, alone and feline thin,
upon a stricken fence.
We were together in the dark requited past,
where ancient lovers swore allegiance in a Doric oath,
constructed from a pagan dream.
The moments we have lost are shriven solitude, we burned in time
and learned to wear
a crucible to clothe our nakedness, and learned to breathe again
in suddenly more difficult, more transitory air.
As we have stolen time, have wrenched it out in rhyme,
have sucked the nectar dry, we can impose
the skeletons, echoing in prose
a barricaded, lyric spring
bubbling up in footprints left behind
in an ancient, golden time
where hand in hand we walked a happy childlike land
and heard unerringly the voice of love.
Our being then had chained the future
in an allegorical beatitude that is reality, and apart
from other images, or attitudes.
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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