For Your Mother and Mine

I opened an apple,
I found a seed.
Strange, that life waited
in the plain guise of death-
 or maybe it was sleep.

The fruit ambrosial
dripped with myrrh;
a breath of sweet dizzy air,
a caressing of creekwater-
 its song was heard,

but it died soon,
shriveled, unshriven.
It waited in the ground, in
the grey memorial of the mind-
 for redemption given.

Perhaps death faltered,
careless or powerless.
From the loins of his slaves
flew the captives unchained-
 crowned with hope's tress.