the old osage orange hedge
still marches perpendicular to the road
marking the boundary line of a farmstead
long since swallowed up by atomic age homes.

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
the old osage orange hedge
still marches perpendicular to the road
marking the boundary line of a farmstead
long since swallowed up by atomic age homes.
in winter the trees
show their secrets
the roses are sleeping
beneath the blanket of leaves the wind
has knitted and ripped from the trees.
these leaves had roots once.
this sheaf was a forest
(or a tree)
and birds nested
in its branches,
squirrels cannoned
from limb to limb
with death-defying grace.
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
ten trees arrived in the mail today
their tender trunks scarcely more than twigs
but already I was imagining the bank
of white blossoms in the spring —
hawthorne, dogwood, crab —
and the pale hellebores i’d bought
that would start blooming in the snow