Lord, Lord…

[Matthew 24:32]

The accursed branch grows tender now. The tree puts forth its leaves

Summer rains swell ripening fruits, which finally turn rotten

Like fallen human fantasies a sinful mind conceives –

Your signs return, not yet discerned, ungathered and forgotten.

What signifies, in heaven’s name, this fruitful green allusion?

(Though no one could care less today…they scorn your precious figs).

Is it messianic allegory?   Metaphor?    Delusion?

Can we dig from the mire its trampled truth, this pearl bestowed on pigs?

Summer’s birds and insects feast. The spoiled harvest drops.

Still I stand within the foliage awaiting revelation…

Your parables of flocks and shepherds, farmers, kings and crops

Lord, what on earth could they ever mean to a post-atomic nation?

Like every blinded wandering fool I thought I’d live to see the day –

but all I see are figs, ungathered, withering away.


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