The Bridegroom
Amy MacDonald
April 1, 2002
He shook each fig off history's tree
Into a basket spilling out
Over the temple's upper room.
The lavish incense made us drowsy
With ourselves. We feasted long
In the supper tent, while one by one
He whispered us away with him
To the pomegranate orchard.
Our garden tales recessed to myth,
But now are undone in the gaze of one
Whose gate exists to open out
At every point. Our lover calls,
You are the one I love.
His words are a rose rattled shut;
An inner dark velvet waits to be exposed
Until most have slumbered home.
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