Her Very Tree

These apples are strange nourishment

For human hunger, but content

She feeds upon this meagre fare

Who might starve piteously elsewhere.

Her bare field grew this stunted tree

Whose roots reach deeper than the sea,

Whose sap, a thin and salty wine

Is drawn from the green ocean's brine,

Rising through gnarly roots to blight

Hard leaves, impervious to the light,

Whose fruga) show of April blossom

Fell early to the earth's warm bosom,

On whose black boughs the fruit hangs blind

And armored in a bitter rind;

Chill fruit the hot autumnal sun

With alien wonder looks upon,

Harsh fruit the soft and innocent earth

Incredulously brought to birth.

Yet she is proud, as one for whom

Remembering its April bloom,

And faithful to an April vow

The stunted tree, the twisted bough,

The blackened leaf, the hidden root,

Brought forth a miracle of fruit.

This is her very tree, whereof

The acrid, withered fruit is love.