I would write for myself
After the thawing, in a gold book:
That’s how I know some semblance of Yeshua
still works through my veins. Urgent love to steep-
a honeyed ache would spread like sap on the tongue.
I’d remind that I am a pomegranate
bursting with seeds raining to the ground
pouring to the ground
Through the outburst of fissures
Of rock and calcite In their time of year
But it’s thawing year. Open for
minnows to kiss and heat the lake’s surface,
and seal a capsule of heart in rock still pulsing
for each other like a lost well of whispered hymns-
Sustained- A long ache before two small wrists almost touch.