“Ripening”

OR

Why It is Not Advisable to Lend Your Philosopher's Stone To a Poet

We want to touch the world
And see it turn to gold
For our hands have known
A sublime and secret alchemy
We have raked our fingers across the sky
And left gold dust in the clouds
We have cupped our own faces in our palms
Until our skin ran rich and molten

But then, there are days of prosaic silence
When we reach for a leaf And it stays blank and green
Unchanged, ungilded by our touch
A hidden hollowness then fills the throat
Has the music stopped?
Has the dance gone still?
Has the gold dust turned to rust?
A whisper of barren fear,
A rime of frozen lace
Frosts the heart

Into this silence
A Wise One speaks
An Elder of our Art

Her words are short, succinct ,
Yet resplendent, full
In the way of a true poet, her
Concept is
Concise
Complete

“Wait”
She tells us
Though the word is not spoken
“Ripen”
She says and
The message is clear

The fruit hangs on the boughs above
Blushing a burnished, yellowgreen
Sleepy, young, unripe, unseasoned
I reach up, and the sun
Catches gilt in my fingers
A ball of gold fire in the palm of my hand
It wells in filagree past my knuckles
And glows with a gilded radiance right through my skin
I close my hand
And bring in down

In my palm lies a single leaf
Of green
Sweet, verdant green
Like the fresh cut dream of an endless Spring
It is thin and fragile and slightly curled
A deep lush emerald, veined with touches of clover
I hold it against my lips: it feels of velvet and smells
Of early morning, when the birds throats are open and
The dew is cool on the fields I look up and catch my breath
At the vast canopy of jade swaying over my head
The sun has broken through the branches
And the glade is flooded with light
But my eyes
Have gone as
Green As glass
And I have Forgotten Gold
(For Fran)
Edwina Peterson Cross © January 2004

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