Under open branches to grasp a falling
Apple saved from memory’s dappled traces,
Whose hundred blotted flaws or our recalling
Reveal sorry scars in blistered spaces.
Oh but these are winding tracks that stick
Like tea leaves to the cup’s cracked skin
Left out in yesterdays wept over, slick
With oily film a residue so thin
We barely notice its searing sting
This fresh-lit fire, palm-burning, soul-dropping
Wrenching away the song we sing,
No melody accompanies this lopping
Of another limb, another track lies
Blackening these salted fields, inking
This orchard dark against knowing eyes,
Spring rains make rivulets of our thinking.