Marguerite Young

THERE WILL BE ON THE BRANCH of the wild, wet cherry

Not the vexed bloom but calm leaves of early
Saints where the velvet shadows lengthen
In orchards shuttered from moon and sun;
Those fibrous hearts will be unspun
Like silken webs on breathless air
Gleaming among globules of the green pear.
Dim leaves of seraphim,
Gold flood of flesh gone dim,
Will drift above the azure dust
Of eyelids closed like wildest
Starlings startled swept by storm;
There will be no one whose blood is warm.

Marguerite Young

////

You come to this old village by a ferry
Which wheezes and trembles in a spasm,
But the iron clapper by the river clearly
Has called the fisherman across the chasm.

Marguerite Young

////