In my keel, Lord,
insert your graft
from which branches will sprout,
ribs are strung together,
in the wound
below the heart
thrust in the wedge.
This is the hour when the fruit tree is spent.
It yields
only quince and grapefruit.
Burst open the seals of my soul
be watered by the earth’s moisture
and the thirsty leaves to be slaked by the frost.
The wood of my branches is gnarled
awaiting the blades
of the pruner.
Your hands enliven and do not hurt,
like caressing a chord,
a guitar arpeggio.
In my innermost soul, batter me, O Lord
Furrow me in my keel
to drive in the graft
from the tree of Eden
with the taste
of immortality.