The first of three poems, collectively "Three for the Trees."
The apple trees stay close together, far
as possible from the oak trees which look down
upon those wind-spun blossoms. Though they are
communicants in pollen, though renown
would greet oak/apples, if they only could,
they won't. Unheeding acorns, apples grow
a little sour, while the oaks make wood
from dirt, then slowly leave the dirt below.
They draw no moral, neither leave. They sieve
the same brown air and replicate their kind,
but do not share, they do not change. They give
no sense they have each other much in mind.
What apple does for oak tree is not clear.
From rooms across the way, though, people frame
them in one scene, glad that they stand so near,
one sight, one kind, called by a common name.
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