Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Shape Poem

Don’t eat, He said,
of the tree of the
knowledge of good
and evil, lest you die.
But they ate its fruit,
 anyway, and God said dust to dust: no tree of life for you. We’ve
been laboring; fighting thorns and thistles; and making sad offerings
ever since: too much fruit of the ground, not enough fruit of the Spirit.
Apples don’t fall far
from trees, all of us
repeating sins of our
fathers, our only hope
 resting in the Apple of
the Father’s eye, Who
 wore thorns, suffered,
and died on a tree of
His own. Hung up,
  pulled down, buried. RISEN. Reaching down to lift us up: bunch after bunch of bad apples.

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