his talk was the talk
of the good soil prepared
in forethought to receive
names as seed.

cleared of bramble level smoothed,
clods broken to their fineness,
believably watered.

yet his way passed
over fallow abused field
where he loved more than most
the struggling roots
that survived pushing to air;
trees of fruit and wood.

the same wood he carried,
the same wood they pierced him to.

the sweetest fruit hanging
from lovely stunted trees
offered daily to those broken
among the rocks and thorns.