They
have all gone now,
the
fire engine-red Macintosh,
under
batter with cinnamon,
gone
to day school
on
yellow buses
with
brown-baggers,
or
bruised to a freckled
taupe
and plowed under
for
ransom and ritual.
Some
have had the life
crushed
out of them
for
Thanksgiving cup.
Standing
on the stiff lawn
downwind
of winter,
I
drop the first cold
moon
of November
into
a fractured wheel
of
apple limbs
and
hear the bark
beg
away.
A
pine ridge,
thicker
than a catcher’s mitt,
grabs
half the wind
riding
off Monadnock
and
squeezes out
wrenching
cries that hang,
like
wounded pendants,
on
necks
of
far, thin stars.
Deep
in the Earth,
in
a thermal tube
of
its own making,
an
earthworm grows
toward
a rainbow trout
sleeping
under ice
and
waiting to be heard,
or
the last of an apple’s pips
still
this side of the grass.
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