They call this apple
tree “wild.” And so
it bends over the road
like an umbrella
or a saint beginning
to pray. Always
among the first
to bloom—no fruit,
it is wild, remember?—
reminding others
of their coming
obligations, late
or even later
and then maybe
more glorious
for the waiting.
Every year it is
a surprise beside
the road, every year
a bit taller,
more redolent
so even a cynic
tired of cold
cocks an eye
and writes a poem
about being ready.
