I.
His old adage: "A cat through the branches
will do it. That's when they're pruned."
He says it serious, head tilted, so I'm
there, stretched between limbs,
the county firemen
whining their trucks toward the fields,
pretending to save.
II.
At six, I bite my Delicious
and listen.
His thumb rubs the skin,
punctures the soft spots till they froth.
I do not look long.
III.
Crabapples in my cheeks
without swallowing;
the way a seed irritates the tongue;
the number of Jonathans
you can juggle with one hand;
an orchard divided by moon and man
again: twice the length of waiting.
IV.
The ones you'd keep
(stuffed in a pocket,
slid across a sleeve,
set just-so on a bedside table)
good for boasting and bribes are, at harvest,
ounce for ounce the same (less always being more)
as those thrown away:
inedible, small and hard.
V.
"Abide," he winks,
"in me and I in thee."
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