The Liturgy of the Cherry Tree
The Liturgy of the Cherry Tree
It rains black cherries — the moon drinks deep from ember and from ache,
their holy misty flesh burns through the night like a choir awake,
the hungry mouth drinks silence in like some unspoken mystery,
the cherry tree wraps us in warm cloaks of bitterness and sky.
A tender icon trembles from the dreaming of a child,
the moon has caught itself in branches — sweet bell, fragile and beguiled,
the dew upon our mouths weeps ripened tears from long ago,
childhood sleeps inside the cherries — all we ever used to know.
A timid kiss — a cherry scorched against the warmth of willing lips,
the light pours into mouths through silent, pale archways in eclipse,
at the ear in secret, earrings made of glowing embers tremble bright,
the crickets carry off the dream of wounds toward a sky of snowy white.
It rains, Lord, it rains — burning spheres fall from a clear and open sky,
a farmer with the rain across his back carries the world in one deep sigh,
through his children breathes the loneliness of one living cherry tree,
and he builds his house in tears — from cherries and from barren ground set free.
It rains with cherries — mouths slip into mysteries and go still,
the basket is of lightning, cherry trees keep watch above the hill,
their misty flesh envelops every house from wall to wall,
Lord, how sacred it must be to fade like one black cherry in the dark of fall.
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