Poem – First Fruits

I did not pluck at all,

And I am sorry now :

The garden is not barred

But the boughs are heavy with snow,

The flake-blossoms thickly fall

And the hid roots sigh, ‘How long will our flowers be marred ?’
Strange as a bird were dumb,

Strange as a hueless leaf.

As one deaf hungers to hear,

Or gazes without belief,

The fruit yearned ‘Fingers, come !’ 

0, shut hands, be empty another year. 

1 thought on “Poem – First Fruits

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