Apple poem

Branches do their actorly
melodramatic reaching-for-the-sky.
Nettles ruff the base of the trunks.
The apples have not altogether

gone from this orchard:
a cidery scent or tang is
somehow in the wet moss,
and the grass. Crimson

Queen, Early Bower, Green
Cornish Longstem Pippin.
Cobwebs strung with
all those clear globes.