The Orchard
for Les
Just sixty years ago today, the tree
was planted in soil, the seeds dry and dark,
being sown by newlyweds next door. Across
the years it creaked up from the rust-brown dirt
until it stood upright, a monolith
of the garden.
Today we took it down.
The tree had died where its bark had shed
away; each swipe of the cold axe-head
secured his mind and memories to the ground.
The brown dust circle held us positive
he wouldn’t come home,
his mind in parts--
the first swing of iron—the ambulance towards
their house the day we broke into that trunk--
a fog like no other fog coming down the road
for Les
Just sixty years ago today, the tree
was planted in soil, the seeds dry and dark,
being sown by newlyweds next door. Across
the years it creaked up from the rust-brown dirt
until it stood upright, a monolith
of the garden.
Today we took it down.
The tree had died where its bark had shed
away; each swipe of the cold axe-head
secured his mind and memories to the ground.
The brown dust circle held us positive
he wouldn’t come home,
his mind in parts--
the first swing of iron—the ambulance towards
their house the day we broke into that trunk--
a fog like no other fog coming down the road
