The Orchard

The woman had come to pick me up,then driven us out of town, pointing out roadsand trails and streams along the waybefore parking at a distance. We walked in.

Clear at first sight, above all else,was that it was a living thing. Here laya sky within reach, a field of great cloudsthat took in light, gave off light.Took in time, gave back time.

As we walked the rows, the names of applescame almost full of meaning,and I wanted to know why,like the oriole shying into whiteness,I was there.

Was it a wonder one could take in lovelike air or light? Love made and grownby work outside? Or was it timeI could almost understand—how it grewfrom days I'd climbed and hid, fruit-height,

to this, when I walked through breeze and brightness—was I twice myself? A being, here,faced with what I was? Was love I'd wasted, lost,not kept in these, the quietest blooms?

No, it was hers, no more minethan the sloping ground, or the great soundsomehow not in the clouds racing high.No more than the bird her love had taken,years before, as a sign.

Still, I was there. And my sense, though small,felt as delicate and lasting as the spell. So whenthe woman saw harm to leaves on the east-most tree,and I the worm that gave it, we both thought only of the trees.

We knocked and got the tenant, who found the nest,a ghostly whitish grip around one branch.And it was she who, in duty sure and knee-high boots,hardly paused beyond what seemed a gentle Ready?before her hand tore from its hold the sticky mess,and squeezed the startled wad to grease.