Old Lady
Under
shady branches
Gnarled
and knuckled
Scabbed
and twisting
Lie
windfalls softly cradled
Grass-cushioned
in the dew
Bruised
and slowly browning
In the morning-hazy
sunshine
Sweet
juices fermenting
Into heady
cider
Intoxicating
the lazy wasps
And the bickering
blackbirds
Which feed
upon the crop
Sipping at
this late abundant nectar
Hobbled, she
leans slightly to one side
Her trunk
bent beneath the weight
Of aged
limbs
Of twigs
and leaves and fruits
Weathered,
wind-buffeted
Her bark
rough and leathery
Skin
rotted and cankered
Her shape
crooked and disfigured
Diseased,
hard and broken
By the
passing seasons
Yet still the
sap rises within her
Re-awakened
every Spring
To produce
abundant blossom
Pulling in
the pollinators
To create
a canopy-full
Fertile
with hard and heavy fruits
Of such
acid sharpness
Silhouetted
in her twilight years
Still
fiercely rooted
She stands
defiantly alone
Never part
of any orchard
Crabbed in
her corner of the garden
But still
verdant, fruitful, useful
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