It is a period of unconnected moments
not defined by brokenness
but by darkness and wandering.
There I am, I see. Though much is unseen.
Between "Will you?" and "I do,"
Amidst the interlocking roots of two trees I dwell.
Opposing one another end to end.
One tree is the beginning
the other, consummation.
One's fruit taken and eaten,
the other to be given and received.
The Mandorla, a womb, a space between,
I am pre-existing here before I am born again,
before becoming one, before saying "I do,"
before a foreshadowing taste of the final fruit.
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