MANNA

My vital disbelief is shaken by the flesh of a tree.

Such a simple bulbous thing, mostly taken for granted,
this pale offspring protected by a downy, pungent skin,
its perfection intended, its noble purpose clear. Here,
for us, is no perfumed ornament, no mere sustenance.

The cupped palm is comforted, the hand glad to grasp and pull
and carry the pleasant weight of it, lolling, lingering
with gracious reward, a succulence, to ravish and please.

I eat of the fruit, no sin committed, only an impulse
that prompts the mind’s firing signals to trigger a thought:

I am, now, alive.



Adam Parker
July 19, 2008