659 and 660

Before me was a tree that gave me fruit

fit perfectly for all my nourishment.

I mean, it could exactly feed and suit

my body’s need–restore all it had spent.

But I, who stood before the silent tree,

saw only one more fruit. There was no sign

that could convince the hungry heart of me

that what it bore was made for me to dine.

That tree told me exactly nothing. Could

it speak, could it have asked what was my need,

and could it tell me how precise, how good

its fruit was for my belly, could I heed?

I know not. But whatever fruit I share,

I must provide an explanation there.

~~~

Whenever you arrive, the door will be

as warm as when I lived here. When you cross

the threshold of the door to be with me,

though I’m not there, you will not feel my loss.

If you had come just a few years ago

I’d have a meal prepared, and blankets set

upon your bed. Not now. But, even so,

you will not find the house cold. No, not yet.

I’ll keep its fire burning, though I can’t

stay there within its walls. You’ll find that still,

though dust has gathered, and the fridge is scant

of food, the warmth I’ve kept. And always will.

I will not be there when you find my door,

but cold won’t be your welcome. That’s for sure.