The Settler

You are.

Into the long longing corner of our sameness
A season in disguise at noon
The grapes of never planted harvests,
The sleep of foster seeds and cherry trees in bloom.

A self-reflecting sunbeam in a guilty spring.

You were mine.
Before the two World Wars illiterate dead
became wheat
then white bread;
before their sharp, prayless bones
became coat of arms;
before their thirsty, all bleeding kisses
became history textbooks;

Like the untouched weeds of a parental grave
The entrance to a candleless cathedral
The stone transition
From a future bride’s to the other woman’s finger
The unfound wounded wing.

You are to be.
The unborn yet of all the hunted species
The trophy for a buried sunset…
For all my days after tomorrow
My magic carpet.

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