Apples

Across the orchards of abandoned farms,

Walking the hills above the town,

We found that fallen apples kept their flavour.

It had grown more various and precise,

A measure of varieties no longer sold.

What we lack is an archaeology of apples,

But apple is neither coin nor arrowhead.

Going back down our feet encountered

Among the grass the graves of apple growers

Buried beside their crop, hidden obstructions

Slowing our descent. I do not think

That Eve discovered evil in an apple,

As its sweeter knowledge filled her mouth.

Today, with Adirondack winter on us,

We watch the fire and scent the apple-wood,

Counting the trails we can no longer follow,

The hills around us one long sierra of snow.

Copyright Hudson Review Summer 2004
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