The bones of this poem were laid out many years ago, probably between twenty and twenty-five – the first words were scratched out during the spring of the year mentioned in the poem . I’ve tried to put some flesh on the old bones. I don’t know if I succeeded. Another Song for My Parents No fruit to can this year – no pears to preserve, no peaches to pickle – though the grove stands strong-limbed and leaf-laden, the trees are a façade of fruition. There are no birds to battle for fledgling fruit, no need to spray against boring bugs or to sacrifice an old flannel to fashion another futile scarecrow on which the jays might rest. For stripped of their greenery, the trees would be seen as the naked, foolish trunks they are, hiding behind their boast of foliage. Late January brought day upon day of unseasonal sun that warmed the soil. The roots stirred and took the tease, sending the sap on a suicide rise just before the front swept through with its sensible snow, its bitter, sap-freezing winds, and frigidly called the roots on their bluff, voiding all talk of freezer space and Mason jars and spiteful jays to fend against. And I, in foolish human fashion, find myself angry with false spring and these thoughtless trees my parents have nurtured for this needless but precious work that brings them worth and a duty to fill each season. They need for winter to act as winter ought, and for these trees to learn the seasons. For those hands that pick and can know their seasons dwindle quickly, and these pears and peaches preserve for them a fragile tie with youth and hope and turning ripe while time is overtaking.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Jan 2014 04:50:59 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015