Canticle for Hosea
Posted: Tue Dec 15, 2015 1:29 pm
Canticle for Hosea
I
I am an open wound, Yahweh,
here, among these grey tufted-tailed
squirrels scavenging in the bush,
skipping by paths where crickets sing
and cicadas hum into night.
Within the Sheol-pit of my
stomach there is only a numb
hunger for you, my Beloved,
the searing pain of loss, the cruel
mystery of tomorrow. Here, where
cicadas hum there is, now, no
consolation. You grant only
restless torment, demanding I
be your prophet of pain; here, where
crickets sing, I, an open wound.
II
Within the silence of Yahweh’s
winter snow, I recall fall leaves
aching to become flashing flames
as they dangled on tired trees sloped
into the wind. By the banks of
this green river, abandoned leaves
are my tears for you, Lo-rammi.
Now snows lie deep on pathways where
squirrels once skipped and scavenged. But
she would not be wooed in Yahweh’s
brittle season, where silence is
a condemnation; memory
but a barren consolation.
III
Would that you would come into the
desert with me where cicadas
do not hum, where no crickets sing.
My breasts I gave you to suckle,
but you would not. When you were
my Desert People you wandered
in hope; by a green river you
secured only walls and condemned
me to these waiting expanses.
Only the sands heed me, the sun-
scorched rock knows a love-heat you knew
not. Your grief, my prophet, your tears,
have become mine. She lies beneath
the oak and poplar, my people
under pleasant shades; but I, a
lover’s winter must endure.
I
I am an open wound, Yahweh,
here, among these grey tufted-tailed
squirrels scavenging in the bush,
skipping by paths where crickets sing
and cicadas hum into night.
Within the Sheol-pit of my
stomach there is only a numb
hunger for you, my Beloved,
the searing pain of loss, the cruel
mystery of tomorrow. Here, where
cicadas hum there is, now, no
consolation. You grant only
restless torment, demanding I
be your prophet of pain; here, where
crickets sing, I, an open wound.
II
Within the silence of Yahweh’s
winter snow, I recall fall leaves
aching to become flashing flames
as they dangled on tired trees sloped
into the wind. By the banks of
this green river, abandoned leaves
are my tears for you, Lo-rammi.
Now snows lie deep on pathways where
squirrels once skipped and scavenged. But
she would not be wooed in Yahweh’s
brittle season, where silence is
a condemnation; memory
but a barren consolation.
III
Would that you would come into the
desert with me where cicadas
do not hum, where no crickets sing.
My breasts I gave you to suckle,
but you would not. When you were
my Desert People you wandered
in hope; by a green river you
secured only walls and condemned
me to these waiting expanses.
Only the sands heed me, the sun-
scorched rock knows a love-heat you knew
not. Your grief, my prophet, your tears,
have become mine. She lies beneath
the oak and poplar, my people
under pleasant shades; but I, a
lover’s winter must endure.