D. A. Powell Orchard in January

Like a ramshackle crane fly,
the limbs, the rusted harrow.

Itinerant workers
with pruning hooks in tow.

She had that first child young.
They cut him out. Tilled

each day: short, clear, & cold.
A smattering of hailstones.

What's gone will be restored.

What grows grows in exile;
grows obdurate as any bough

that puts forth a good crop
and is sheared back, scanty

as the spring is populous.


Back to 45.2