There are black figs that grow from thistle’s brier,
pears ripen from ev’ry Calvary’s thorn,
there is a land called heav’n—it is the morn—
and it descends on us within our mire.
My pristine view could spy its pearlesque gate,
from place of inky darkness I would look
from page to page inside an aging book,
the twelve tall oaken wall clocks growing late.
We don’t aspire as children to be short,
nor looked upon with unrealistic eyes,
nor told our Saviour bleeds for us and cries,
not when the adults do console with port.
I thought I’d leave some burgundy for you,or seltzer water with a lime ice cube.