The garden is not grateful to the gardener.
The bud does not cry, ‘Open me!’
Darkness untangles threads of light without God’s fingers,
filaments of pollen spilling from the reckless void.
The gardener is grateful to the garden.
Only you unfold this petaled radiance, your heart.
The Goddess may entice you with a thrush’s song.
The Master may foreshadow the blossom’s shape.
Christ may enfold you in the fragrance of April.
But you do your own awakening.
Hang brightly on your stem of thorns.
Jesus will rise and appear to you in the morning.
When he reaches out his hand to pick you,
don’t mistake him for a God. Jesus also thirsts.
You are the garden. He is the Spring.
Others arrive by many paths to bask in your tint.
They imitate it on their lips and cheeks.
They ask you, ‘How did it happen?’
Your silence answers, ‘Open yourselves.’
You would like to tell them even more…
If the wildest poppy could speak it would share a secret:
this body’s weightless blossom droops
under the dew of desire; therefor when a scent arises
from the nameless stamen inside you, don’t cry ‘Thou!’
Unfold secretly, midwifed by the moon.
Stones will stand aside at the tomb of your heart.
No power bows them but green, gushing from death.
Seeds break open alone; no one knows what they feel.
Then Mary comes. You speak her name, not yours,
so that her silence may explode into petals of fire.
This is a small representation of the high-quality writings you’ll find in every issue of TIFERET.
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