Out of the lone evening of overgrowth
I come arms laden with stalks
That have dry leaves and no fruit.
My harvest of memory is woeful
Besides history's recondite shadows
Keep tripping my speech
There are gaping holes in the past
And in the reconstruction of any vision.
One can only start anew:
The first gospel of my alterity.
Something in the harvest though
Forbids me to leave anything familiar behind.
I had no day to harvest
The night was here before my birth
The worms ate already leaves and fruits
Yet the season calls for its ritual
And are strangers in this habitual.
I say a man must know before he can dream
But dreams like Babel came down
Against the silence of the earth
And we tongue was left no voice to cry
In the language that God would know
Was ours before the trampling of the snow.
O Rebekah, Rebekah
Wet the dry stalks with your tears,
It is the smokescreen you desire
I get more insurance if it was fire.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment