by Alina Johnson
Gold stand, branched and flowering,
Mimicking life that bears light—
New life, spring life, in the buds
Of the world’s most precious almond.
In bloom, the almond tree has
Not yet born fruit, but frozen
Remains forever in bud—
Not unfruitful but waiting.
Fruit of Hesperides’ tree,
Golden as this but guarded
By the winged serpent, plundered
By the son of the sons of God:
Did you not glow as, glowing,
The fruit that eats the eater
Tricked Atlanta and pleased Eve?
So discord’s apple sowed seeds,
And in sowing, lost all light.
This a conceit or a deceit?
Can these trees be of a kind:
Knowledge tree, apple, almond?
Each testing men to or from
The Maker, who would know if
His garden will consume them.
Each a thing un-had, lacking:
Knowledge, greatest beauty, fruit.
These, O Man, you cannot eat.
Each eating? Life, maidenhood—
But not almond: it burns,
Flowering but fruitless it
Burns like its cousin the bush
In Horeb’s desolation,
Relentlessly unconsumed.
From unburnt burning plant’s light,
A voice promises rescue
To consumptive Man. In wastes
Without fruit but forever
Blooming, the golden almond lamp
Illuminates the final
Garden—where life grows without
Payment, but with God, who heals.
Alina Johnson is a recent graduate of Biola University, where she studied English and music.
Agape Review 