Needle in the side
of a half-ripe fruit—
the pain precipitates
in tiny drops
on the forehead
of a martyr for love.
I’m counting the ways
I’m mad for you.
Apples and pears,
peaches and plums—
Midnight-watchers stand their guard
by the hymns
of a tired heart
and a restless soul.
I’m counting the ways
I’m glad for you.
Under the basket,
under the pall—
the stones of sadness
glimmer and glow
(silent and still)
out of the dark.
I’m counting the ways
I’m sad for you.
Herald of suff’ring,
born of the moon—
the news you bring
sickens the sun
and troubles the rain;
the pilgrim’s march
runs on again.
I’m hiding the love
I had for you
all that time ago.