21 Apr Heap Thy Coals

Posted at 17:34h in For My Wife, Poems by

Heap thy coals upon my head, o my bride:
I sound my aches for thee with none beside.
An honest grove in yield on distant shoal
Prepared for righteous harvests, lushest soul,
A lissome daughter poised for season’s fruit;
Sisters become mothers, thou follow suit
Majesty-garbed, sylvan-locked, fecund,
Whose myrrhic thrills propel to skies beyond.

Serene are thee, o happy maiden mine,
Permit my hand to grasp upon thy vine;
The ancient garden echoes though my mind:
The sword, aflame; the cherub, seraph-shined;
Upon thy touch — thy torrid, mystic taste
Upon thy linens which, without a haste,
I wish to drown, the laver poured from thee:
Thy brimming rosé lakes reserved for me.

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