Sunday, July 3, 2011


Song of Solomon 4:16

Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.”

A wind bloweth gently

Stirring the hair

At the nape of my neck

Eyes closed I savor the scent

Of musk and spice and Africa

The loam of earth’s origins

Grown in fabled gardens

I await my beloved’s return

For reclamation

Prepared with anointments

Ruddy with ministrations

Fine gold braided in strands

At the secreted entrance

To a private sanctuary

Pomegranates lay heavy on boughs

Cinnamon studded with spikes

Of the finest saffron

Reddened apple bottomed fruits

And succulent peaches

The table set and feast prepared

Let my beloved come and have his fill

Awake fair winds

Bear him to his garden

Stir the petals gently

To release the spicy pungency

Of my ripened fruit

Grown from his careful tendings

Seeded for his palate only

© NP 7/2/11

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