Jew #13

This is the number that some men dread, and some void From the intercourse of life. But I, indelibly now, reclaim Its place in universal order and the sweet conceit of pride For C13 was the boudoir where our bodies did once flame Like the poincianna's bloom. Evening was my special time And the waiting for your knock on the door; O, your smile Was my hibiscus in that room, your eyes the rose sublime And your body my lignum vitae, rare, rich and softly mild. Thirteen is a flower garden to me ... fresh beauty in a seed And a thousand fruiting trees to come from it, I suckled The morning glory of your tongue, felt you fed in me a need For the glory of a seed. From our skin the water trickled Irrigating dreams of generations to come, and then a drought Sudden and fierce, and then my sadness through the years To search for you, in school-less days, everywhere about To make you grow rich again in the pasture of my tears And some the number would blame for all the hapless things But I, my faith to heaven clings, and honor Him for purposes Unseen, for my life is not an accident, but ever love springs To make me what I am; our life is as heaven sweet disposes And in all things I learn to trust and to wait, for the seasons Of the flowers may go, but his promise like a rainbow remains My life is beyond mere chance, our love above human reasons And C13 stays as the cloud that brings sweet summer rains.