To Pour the Wine, But Not to Drink
he waits proudly at his table,
beside him fire, water, and pale grief,
his guests all turned to stone.
A banquet of bright watercress
dripping from the stream,
warm loaves from cradle-ovens,
foreheads blessed by floured thumbs,
a soft rain falling down.
Succulent in the moist night air,
the fatted lamb on platter waits
dreaming of his mother,
a restless ewe upon a barren slope.
Distant � not one thing is near,
meaning within meaning
lost in the folds of rich white linen,
a caravan of hands that worried there.
Hills that dream, stone hearths,
fallen trees alive with spirits,
wooden wheels across a dusty plain,
stars that know each other�s names.
His servants arrive in a weary clatter,
set foot on the icy ground,
daughters of sons, sons of mothers,
riddled tongues, a gathering of nations,
fenceposts tied burning to their backs,
they pour the wine, but not to drink,
while their master looks grimly on.
November 12, 2005
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