Cultivar from the West
       

The leaf waits like a flame that could burn
even on water. It has fallen from the black tupelo
turned red early in a garden where the apple
was named black in what seemed like the beginning.

We know the red topsoil in the garden will not last,
that the apple holds every grain transferred
from where it roots, and still the man takes the apple
from the woman's hand. The pool

is moving, god in the wings, watching, the fins
of fish even as wings, which will be ground to glitter.
This is your gift. Aren't you grateful? The apple
tastes like sand, and its flesh washes the tongue
with grains that could be glass if heated. Only a child
or god would dare say what they are thinking.

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from Kestrel
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