You ask me for love…
you tell me to guide you to the sun
you call me rain, washer of wounds
you’ve come stripped and fragile
raw and wounded seeking something
Sure to be the words I could
give you nothing of
No more than a ledge from which
I’d one day let you down
the truth I’d found in your seasons
and your violent storms
Find the fruit that hangs the bough
find it in the silence, stay your weapon
more than captured, sweet and ripened in the waiting
pick to fill your soul and not your mouth
sugars come swiftly and roots make anchors
until the rain will come again