Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Orchard by H. D.


I saw the first pear         
as it fell—
the honey-seeking, golden-banded,      
the yellow swarm          
was not more fleet than I,                
(spare us from loveliness)          
and I fell prostrate         
you have flayed us        
with your blossoms,              
spare us the beauty       
of fruit-trees.       

The honey-seeking       
paused not,       
the air thundered their song,            
and I alone was prostrate.          

O rough-hewn   
god of the orchard,       
I bring you an offering—           
do you, alone unbeautiful,              
son of the god, 
spare us from loveliness:            

these fallen hazel-nuts,             
stripped late of their green sheaths,      
grapes, red-purple,               
their berries       
dripping with wine,       
pomegranates already broken, 
and shrunken figs          
and quinces untouched,                  
I bring you as offering.


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