Waits

Perhaps waits are, in certain seasons,
arrivals that a longing for the fruit has cut down;
already lined, yes, like lives, and with names carved
inside forms not always geometrical
but which, in any case, and almost in every case,
are wounds that bleed, then heal
in the vision of what may be or not the soul
within the bark.

But such arrivals had and still have veins
and sap, even on the ground upon which they fell,
and which is as much the verge of a path to get closer
as it is, quite simply, earth to die in or whence to drink
the rebirth of such fruit, and, even before, of leaves
redeeming others, those of departure, when the tree,
still standing, lingered on copulations with a grey sky
in a brief place of autumn, almost winter.

And then again there are waits that are consummated
in the arrival, or perhaps body, of another wait; and
they truly merge, the carvings of both, and the forms
creating, within the void, the cadence and the perfect
geometry of lips, of hands, and of boughs in erection,
and more longings blooming, with teeth already biting
that memory of the pulp which is the one that gives,
to the fruit, the only quenching name.

It is solstice already, in the juice, fulfilled, overflowing
the mergence; and the soul is undeniable, this time,
in the form on the ground, or bed of leaves;
those leaves that never fell, but were, rather, ripped off,
so that the naked bark, restored to mere skin,
will show us, like this, with one name tasted by us only,
also naked and, quite simply, one tree, by the verge
of the path.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®