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Courtesy of Others ~
The grove is dappled.
The shifting shadows
Of green, of greener than green, of tones of greened grey—
How they move and swim against the bright sweetness
The primed and opened colors of her fruit.
The soft cream of her flowers, and underfoot
Rising, smelling, apple-sweetness, apple-tart,
The strength of the apple bough, and the
Pleasurable roughness of the bark, all measure
Their weight and substance in her grove.
The very wind is fragrant. It moves her flowers,
It moves her, flowering, towards us. The hand
Trembles, reaching for her. Then holds back,
Not to profane that white flowering, that pristine
Newness of being. She reaches that hand, with hers,
With her hand, with that same white perfection.
Her hand passes yours, straight to the heart.
Within the apple are chambers, something like the heart.
They are seeded. They are seeded with growth, with the
Bead-smoothed brown colored growing of new apples.
The taste is in your mouth, and the smell
Ravishes your senses, takes you past all thought,
All critique, all ability to temporize or refuse.
Within the hearth, growth.
Within the mind, delight. A purity of delight.
Worship. And acceptance. And the knowledge
That the gods endure this, century on century,
To remain gods, to remain as living gods.
In the realm of the gods, fruit and flowers
Bloom constantly. And they bloom within the heart.
And the seeding growth can pain you. And
Yet be sought for. Idunna, wife to poetry—
She knows the heart's workings.
How we love her.
Image: "Idun" by
Thalia Took, used by permission.
Art of Thalia Took.
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