Orchard
I saw the first pear
as it fell—
the honey—seeking, golden—banded,
the yellow swarm
was not more fleet than I,
(spare us from loveliness)
and I fell prostrate
crying:
you have flayed us
with your blossoms,
spare us the beauty
of fruit—trees.
The honey—seeking
paused not,
the air thundered their song,
and I alone was prostrate.
O rough hewn
god of the orchard,
I bring you an offering—
do you, alone unbeautiful,
son of the god,
spare us from loveliness:
these fallen hazel—nuts,
stripped late of their green sheaths,
grapes, red—purple,
their berries
dripping with wine,
pomegranates already broken,
and shrunken figs
and quinces untouched,
I bring you as offering.
