and in the shop…
“The Lightbulb has Stigmata”
The spheres roll round:
the joyful decades,
the glorious decades,
the sorrowful decades,
decades of dead ends.
But there will come a time my dear
when children with armfuls of flowering branches
(leaving others with firewood for the mansions’ fireplaces),
laughing and running from far away,
will come to bring the branches to your fingertips –
every circular rut of your digits
is a socket for matching ring of a blossoming tree
that makes pink snow in spring –
and they will fit perfectly and the sap will run
into your blood and your blood into the sap,
and your nails painted pearly pink will grow
into magnolia flowers to hold the branches.
Then the children up on ladders
will get apples and avocados
out of baskets to adorn you
and will make a full crown.
And all this won’t be heavy
because you will be lying down by the water,
on your back by the beck by the walnut tree,
with your arms by your sides,
and you will let your hair down into the stream –
yes, the beauty parlour of Paradise! –
and let your roots get drenched,
with your palms to the sun.