For Salad And For Wine

For Salad And For Wine / Joshua Alan Sturgill

I don’t believe in hell or weeds,

though I don’t doubt the necessity
of fire. At every change of the world,
swords must be reforged

into spades and spoons. Imagine:
lawns of nothing but dandelions,
every flower a child’s ecstatic sketch

of the Sun. Wishes won’t fly
without breath to break them
from the stem. Every soldier

understands the practicality
of multi-use provisions.
Pack what makes for salad

and for wine. After the war
is the long journey, the search
for the woman from his vision,

the woman walking in the trees.
I believe in the beginning
Earth sprang from Heaven’s rib.

Their language is words
that are magnolias, a conversation
without remainder — no dross,

no smalltalk. Between Let There Be
and Let Us Make is nothing
but a Garden on fire,

burning, yet not consumed