What honor to be cursed by him who is,
To gasp, wither and die in grace and truth,
A widower tree forbade to mourn,
Dry-boned and figless: the arbor prophet.
Looking at your legs across the table,
Our conversation stalled four more years,
The tree speaks: “No good thing does he withhold.
Remember the curse, the Christ, and worship.”
The prophets live to bring to life through words,
And waves are stayed by one who keeps the seas.
“Thus far” my eyes and ears shall see the sound,
“No farther” echoes from the fig tree’s limbs.
Your bare right shoulder hears the words, agrees,
And I’m content to wait for you in peace.