We of waste, waisted we, who would squander
sorrow, squander the rich trash, the morning grinds,
the pears over-ripened in the fruit bowls—
for we are gardenless in Eden,
naked in the shadow of forbidden trees—
we, who would lower our child gaze, to age,
to fall unwinged from heaven's favor, seized
with cheeks of grief and mouths of bitter sage,
should we not stake our spite, grow weeds in bins,
to praise creation, render heaven whole,
and sow eternal mercies of our strife?
Wastes tended, pears halved, in an alms of rapture:
is it not to us to ivy the arbor?