By A.J. Odasso
31 December 2012
You teach me patience, send jars of sunlight
which require careful straining. Your children
spin gold from acacia and rose, turn blood shades
into caring sweetness. You did not know me
from either inhabitant of Eden, but still you threw
wide your garden gates and said: Come, taste.
Whence I've come in such condition—my wings
in shreds, hum broken—you took the time to ask.
Now, I take my tea with a fine skim of wax.