If, as it is said, that God is love, and I agree,
and if I am laced, as my milk is laced, with fire,
as his soup was laced with spice and heat,
then vineyards laced in the dew of the rising sun,
will feel the flare of flame in that which can’t be said,
its wine devoured till vine’s own essence runs in mine.
And if this is God as I have longed for him,
afraid of him, run from the shadow of his hand —
If all this is true and it is true,
what hope is there for God
when earthly love, among my kitchen things
has taken me by stealth and honest wile,
come through the doors for which I have no locks,
eats me with the fire without guile?
God’s vineyard lies in runnels of the field,
beyond my comprehension, beyond what I must shield.