His first orchard half
wild, haw trees toppling
snake fence, split heart wood,
unkempt apples rust-dappled knuckled
as an amputation.
In a row of cameo
and northern spy he eases
the long-handled lopper
into crowns too thick
for light. Takes the base
of a scaffold branch, feels the beak
catch, resist, then
sheer. The branch staggers loose,
swings from clasped twigs, tumbles.
He stoops to gather silver tips
to force in warmth by the stove
in the kitchen. He will say "apple
of my eye" and she reply
"unlucky."
All day, he does this
slow work. He has seen fire
do it quicker -- shells popping limbs
with blind precision.
Through the twilight, now,
black dog bounding
like a mortar.
______
This is a revision of this poem, posted last week, and a companion piece for "Setting the Bees." Both are from part five of Ghost Maps
