My soul is full of giant glacial rocks,
And cold, deep-water lakes, and cheddar cheese,
And the best apples, towering maple trees
Spilling sweetness, storm-clouds come down in flocks.
The sun rejoices like a champion
To run its course, and from its burning heat
Nothing is hid, the psalm says—but my feet
Said otherwise, when through the snow I’d run
With bread bags in my boots. No palm fronds there,
No hyssop branch or fig trees. Christ reclined
At table, but our floors were cold, inclined
To drafts. We ate our apple pies in chairs.
Face of Christ in the Negev—for my sake,
Come grace the rocks that ring the Finger Lakes.