The Cherry Farm

I can see the money tables turning.
I can see the soft son of God
Broken open on the cross,
Smiling, writhing, then serene.
I can see the cave light up,
The threshold stone pushed back,
The followers’ celebration, bewilderment.
But Abraham standing over his son?
Noah and his arc?
Job with sores, in mourning?
Is a rule book carved in stone
Broken in pieces like bread, hurled at adulterers?
Maybe the leaves are falling
Away from the flower.
Maybe the fields are ripe.
And the fruit is an unyielding
Devotion. An undeserved grace.
Call me a bad Christian.
An unbeliever. It fits.
But I hold a cheesy hope.
My sappy dream is to be a Samaritan,
Wise enough to extend
a hand of help to a beaten man
On a beggar’s road.
It’s a trumpet call at harvest time.
I think I’ll settle in a quiet corner, picking cherries from their stems.

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