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Poem 014

The poet reflects on neglecting an apple tree on their property that eventually died. They brought the dead tree's wood inside to burn in their stove. Through this, they remember the scent of burning apples and regret not taking better care of the tree when it was alive by pruning dead limbs, providing water and nutrients, and giving it more attention instead of being distracted by other plants. The burning applewood is a reminder of the tree's past beauty and productivity, as well as a lesson for the poet to avoid neglecting plants in the future.

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gufronf18
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26 views

Poem 014

The poet reflects on neglecting an apple tree on their property that eventually died. They brought the dead tree's wood inside to burn in their stove. Through this, they remember the scent of burning apples and regret not taking better care of the tree when it was alive by pruning dead limbs, providing water and nutrients, and giving it more attention instead of being distracted by other plants. The burning applewood is a reminder of the tree's past beauty and productivity, as well as a lesson for the poet to avoid neglecting plants in the future.

Uploaded by

gufronf18
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Poem 014: Neglect

Is the scent of apple boughs smoking

in the woodstove what I will remember

of the Red Delicious I brought down, ashamed

that I could not convince its limbs to render fruit?

Too much neglect will do that, skew the sap's

passage, blacken leaves, dry the bark and heart.

I should have lopped the dead limbs early

and watched each branch with a goshawk's eye,

patching with medicinal pitch, offering water,

compost and mulch, but I was too enchanted

by pear saplings, flowers and the pasture,

too callow to believe that death's inevitable

for any living being unloved, untended.

What remains is this armload of applewood

now feeding the stove's smolder. Splendor

ripens a final time in the firebox, a scarlet

harvest headed, by dawn, to embers.

Two decades of shade and blossoms—tarts

and cider, bees dazzled by the pollen,

spare elegance in ice—but what goes is gone.

Smoke is all, through this lesson in winter

regret, I've been given to remember.

Smoke, and Red Delicious apples redder


than a passing cardinal's crest or cinders.

—R. T. Smith

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