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