Harvest

We picked the ready apples yesterday.

I held one in the chalice of my hand,

warm from the vital tree,

sun and summer tanned,

holding within its jeweled heart

the way of spring

and the rebus of the resurrection.

Now, molten hillsides pour

an offering in the sacrificial cup.

See, where the clouds rise up,

how they puff and soar

like wings of cherubim above the Mercy Seat.

Soon, rain purls over branch and dying flower,

on brittle leaf and curled,

and winged things that live for just an hour,

down the drear ashes and aloes afternoon,

over the ancient blood-stains of the world.

Winds cut four-cornered down a golden corridor,

and spent coins scatter on the year’s threshing floor.

Then, snow,

leaves from Heaven’s folio,

far, far from the Day Star nearing,

clean as the scoured heart,

pure as the silver souls, oh Lord,

of those who love Thy Appearing.