When she walks
through the vineyard of your body
hidden gashes open like flowers
exuding the fragrance
of their own healing.
She sings through wounds
where absence blossoms,
the absence of old stories.
Now they are layered in loam
for the press of her footsteps.
Find joy in the presence
of perishing.
Don't count the umbered
and fallen she crushes
under her weightless tread
into sweet nectar.
Without the pain of love,
where is the wine?
Weave a tabernacle of these vines.
Leave the edges of your field
unplucked for the hungry.
If you want to be healed,
let the wanderers,
the people of the land,
rest in your hut for seven nights.
There is room for everyone
in your flesh, all the tribes.
Is this not how she comes
to dwell in you,
a breath-full of stars?
Painting by William-Adolph Bouguereau
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