When this garden
is no longer home to us,
when we are
no longer at home in love
but restless,   and from faith
—mornings wide as a light room
and us light within the light
wherein bird-twitter at dawn
heralded green-leaf day—
when from the brightness of this day,
from faith’s side,   we wake and find
our strangeness come with afternoon
—Eve, come with me beyond faith.

After the estranging apple at noon
in strangeness come with me.
We will come again to Paradise.
We will come again to rest
with eyes that have known unease,
falling away from the ripeness,
known rebellion,   exhaustion,
anger                return,
as if to the same place,
in another time
adore the restored garden.

And,   this is ours,   we will say.
As now we say this is ours,
seeing in the reflection of eyes
memory or promise of what we are,
as apples ripen in the eye
that meditates the flowering tree.
Or sees the fruit fall,
and the bare branch cries.

The war is all about us.   Our joy
is like a world to come
or a world past.     Near and far.

“Green-leaf day”   I said,
There is no more than
gold of your eye or
your lips smiling,    the
momentary curve,
to read love by.

This known wonder
returns, or we return to it.
As if rememberd, yet rare.
Never before known so.

Strangeness, come with me
beyond despair.   Beloved,,
come with me.

It is as if the garden were
always there, even where we are,
here,    where war is,     the certain
end,     the paradise.