AFTER THE EXILE

After our exile from that holy place,
It seemed that every stony, thorn-bound path
Led back to the high wall and flame of wrath
Implacably convicting us of sin.

And one day as I wandered, questioning
The reason for the Tempter and the Tree,
If knowledge were so high a good, and we
Created to aspire, who was at fault

That we had fallen? Could it be, the thought
Of our being like Him had called forth His ire,
Caused our expulsion by the sword of fire?
Would nothing ever bring Him to relent?

Each day now brought new errors to repent:
Self-centeredness, demanding from each face
An image of itself; and new disgrace
How favor shown to Abel bred Cain's hate. . . .

Again I saw the Angel at the Gate.
His face shone like the Sun. I stopped, in doubt
Whether to go or stay. Then he held out
His arms to me and said, "May I come in?"

And I was opened to receive God's grace.


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A RIDDLE

How I am bound taut, drawn down
by these gigantic hands
to the framework that holds me from below!
The slightest tap upon this rack
can make me quiver into sound.
And when
against the cross-pull of the strands
that come and go
I shudder and vibrate,
the whole body of my world resounds.
Should I lie slack
along all my length
in complete contact with this ground,
nor it nor I would resonate:
There would be no music then.
It is this thing
perversely called a bridge,
that separates
and holds me back
from everything--this hard threshold,
this stumbling block--produces strength,
gives power to strain,
and makes me sing.
Sometimes so vibrant is the pain
that thrills me through, I know
they are stroking me again
(fingers pressing, probing how
to raise my cry up to a scream)
with that delicate, pitiless bow.

How they must be enjoying it now.

(A FIDDLE)

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