A spine built for a noble mind,
And a head tall and crowned.
This is the trumpet of daybreak,
This is the lion that awakes.
Sweet apple-love,
Like cherry blossoms in spring,
Or mountains webbed by streams,
Or clouds puffed with dreams.
Every day
Every hour,
Its own sustenance a power,
A daily drink, bitter and sour.
Rain before Spring
But calm before storms,
For every rose, a thorn,
And for every love, a heart torn.
It is not in the lover
To live and not die,
It is in the apple to sweeten the ache,
Of bleeding and shakes.
For faithless is he who abandons a way
When torment’s claws
In tender flesh, hold sway.
Die again, heart so raw,
For an apple is not ripe, unless first it falls.
Allyson Faith
