Before he came to hang upon the naked wood
before the empty womb received the flaming seed,
the moon-cracked earth received the planting song.
Every day, cocks crowed, shoots grew,
leaves, moon, eggs
grew. Every purple night, the cycles drew
on moon, shoots,
eggs pale as lunar light, moon-shell sheer.
Before the tree was felled and stripped of bark and limb,
it bore fruit
amidst the leaves that broke the heat in pools of shade,
and we ate.