A stone’s throw from an abandoned homestead foundation leans
an ancient cherry tree, bent by countless storms,
its northern half bare,
from the southern half
dangles clusters of sweet century old promises.
Once orchard lifeblood of this farm,
its fruit picked for farmers’ market
an early dawn hour’s wagon ride to town;
now broken down, forgotten
until this week of fruitful surrender.
Already, but not yet finished,
roots still reaching deep for one more season;
a faithful cycle blooming forth
with budding life from gnarled knots
to yield glorious from weary dying branches.
Hundreds of glistening amber globes of rosy sheen
cling clustered on crooked lichened limbs,
to be gathered up heaping into bowls of gold,
awaiting ecstatic burst of savored perfection,
fulfilling an old promise of sweet abandon.
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Currants and gooseberries,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye.
This spring the fruit ripens early,
reddening flames that leap up
from branches and leaves,
in some way ignited
like the burning bush
speaking to us
of holy ground.
A few yards from the old homestead foundation of
Partially buried cement chunks covered with sod;
An ancient cherry tree leans to the south,
Its northern half bare, the other half
Bearing century old promises.
Once orchard lifeblood of this farm
Its fruit picked for farmers’ market
An early dawn hour’s wagon ride to town;
Now breaking down, forgotten
Until this week of fruitful surrender.
Almost finished, but not quite,
Rooted deep for one more season;
Faithful cycle blooming forth
With budding life from gnarled knots
Yielding glorious from ancient branches.
Glistening amber globes with rosy sheen
Cling clustered on crooked lichened limbs
Gathered heaping in bowls of gold,
Ecstatic burst of savored perfection,
Fulfilling a promise of sweet abandon.