After Words

now I:

  tend still the tendrils
  that choke my bramble blooms
  with the contracted faith and fading strength
  of a farmer nearing noon

  even though these pumpkin petals
  never once offered one gourd
  or any sprig worth any more
  than a fleeting bud of hope

  but all whiter gifts grow just, to wither
  leaving: life’s bittersweet surmise
  the sharpest edge is the pointless point
  that life’s absurd playwright devised

  still in the moments, I feel whole
  (if the salience of parts subside
    to impart a peace of sense-like paradox
    of Christ harrowed yet divine)

  when by mistake or by design
  time’s clink-clank engine comes to rest
  and my eyes drift above the Flatlands
  to a see rippled without crest


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