by Clara Salter
December 4, 2018
< 1 min read
Water the ground judiciously, until it sings;
if thorns should sprout, withhold sustenance
until the earth cracks and cries out.
Repeat as needed.
Gather Ephrathite straw of high calibre.
Scatter the straw on brittle Moabite clay,
to build a bed of grief.
Arise and claim your chosen branch.
Let it be a branch cast aside,
a branch despised,
a branch warred with.
Let it be a branch that weeps,
a withered branch,
a whither thou goest branch.
Let it be a branch that cleaves
a branch that went out full and came back empty,
a bitter branch, perhaps of hyssop.
Cut off your chosen branch and set it apart.
When barley returns to the house of bread,
bind up your chosen branch;
bind it up with sackcloth and wait.
And hope that while darkness falls,
your remnant trunk will take it.
Wait and hope that through the night,
the foreign graft will bear fruit divine.
Wait and hope that the fruit is good.
Wait and hope that from bitter root,
will come sweet wine.