ANCIENT OF DAYS

We rested under the rude grape arbor. Its dusk-

Blue concord fruit pending, its palm-sized

Leaves sunlit, pale-veined, interrupted the sky.

The scent, a purple smear on the air-muscat,

Sultana-sweet beyond belief, did deceive:

The grapes' wan-green flesh was sour. You taught

me

To burst the grapes in my mouth, spit out

The seedy sour meat, and suck the juice

From the puckered skins. We ate-

Or rather drank- our fill that afternoon.

And the catbird mewled from the firethorn.

And the sun dropped to its autumn low. Returned

Today to that arbor, its rafters in ruins,

Its vine canopy torn and dragging the wine-

And rain-stained table-your splendid pavilion

Is broken-I almost believed you would come home,

Unlatch the gate you shut fast behind you,

Forgiving, forgiven, prodigal god, but no.

The temple stands empty, unhaunted,

But for the drone of my words, and the bees.