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Show Apple Tree I winter too well. My seventh spring And still no bloom beguiles upon my boughs. The plum blossoms primp and blandish, The pear tree lavishes itself in white But leaf-lush I'm this bounteous, greenest waste. My seventh June finds me fruitless again While the sweet cherries swell, the apricots Apricate. Where is the orchardman's Pocketknife?-whose flashed passage through my bast May blister a fruit-spur to flower, Spring flair for next year's harvest. O bless me Not with inconsequential beauty... It's the prayer we all whisper: The plum tree dropping bird-pocked, rotten Half-prunes all through August, the pulped cherries On their branches browning to fall, And through the grove lugging his unlovely limbs The orchardman with the knife his flower. |
