War-Baby

The child like mustard seed
Rolls out of the husk of death
Into the woman's fertile, fathomless lap.

Look, it has taken root!
See how it flourisheth!
See how it rises with magical, rosy sap!

As for our faith, it was there
When we did not know, did not care;
It fell from our husk in a little hasty seed.

Say, is it all we need?
Is it true that the little weed
Will flourish its branches in heaven when we slumber beneath?
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.