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.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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