The Orchard


The orchard is a leftover from other times.

The trees are bent, gnarled and twisted from years and weather,
Disgraced, deformed,
More like fossils of doubled-up skeletons in high chalk walls,
Than the thralls of spring's capture.

They are empty faces in late winter's dim sun.


We have come to picnic
Beneath the branches,
Calculating the odds, the chances,
That our arrival will disturb the peace of this boneyard backyard.

The orchard can be reached only by the path
That runs through the cemetery.

We have brought blanket and basket, though it is empty,
A ruse to leave Ghost Children at home.


They will not come here, they say,
Until they can run among pealing petal-bells,
Appealing rain-rockets of fairy pinks and whites
And nights of such tender blooming
That their hearts fairly burst in fury of rapture
At nature's cause,
Because this is their heart-food.

For us, it is enough to view the vision of these prodigious wonders,
Fecund habits of the apples and pears,
From the distance of winter's waiting.

In our eyes this miracle has already been and blossomed.


We have memorized the meaning, the meandering liturgy of every season,
Even the bare one.

That prepares us to take our pagan hearts part-way to the commitment of dying.

Lying here, already covered in leaving,
We build castles and altars of blood and sacrifice,
A flood of reasons why the orchard must go on without us,
And reasons why
We must not actively seek our release but,
Waiting,
Taking our time, like troubles, into our nest,

Rest and wait to be called to peace.

(March 21, 1988)