Friday, November 14, 2008


Crab Tree


One day after the first day of autumn
I'm in the front yard with an old plastic bucket
and wheelbarrow—flat-tired, rust spread
across the well like a burnt orange continent—
crouched in grass under the crab tree
to rid the lawn of its small, fallen apples.

There are hundreds: some ripe green, some brown,
others black, shriveled like hard raisins.
My dad says it’s like mowing over cobblestone.
Can’t blame him for wanting them gone, in that case.

I start with the outermost rim, sweeping an arc
under the farthest reach of dark, webbed branches.
The first apple dropped makes the purest sound:
a thud, air in collision, then a quick
staccato as it patters to rest against the bottom.

After this, adding more will always mean less
noise; each apple is caught, muffled by the others.

I gather two-handed, from one knee, and find
my eyes are not enough: some fruit is embedded
in thatches of wet grass, obscured, waiting to root.

My fingers pry into life below the surface.
I unearth a grub, curled and white, perennial
bane of my dad’s lawn-keeping, and later on
a mottled insect with long antennae and what I guess
is a stinger, or a slender prong evolved
to look like one. And around them, the apples
scattered everywhere, filling bucket after bucket.

I push each heavy mounded wheelbarrow
into the backyard and beyond the trees, to dump.
There beside a groundswell—leaf-hidden remains
of last year’s crop—and a gray stripe of ashes
from the fireplace, I upend the load and feel certain
that nothing is what it was, innumerable lot
of small hard things tumbling one over the other,
limbs of oaks occluding windows of houses,
the cold, clear whiteness of the sky in this season
not as white. No doubt I can expect the same
task next year, once the apples fall, and I will see.

You can never go back, someone says to me.
Fruitless hope or not, I think I am trying.

I work inward until the grass is flat and smooth
under my palms. Slow, concentric, feeling back
with unclean hands toward the source of something.

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3 Comments:

Blogger Tasha said...

I really love the last lines. The whole thing is obviously good -- you're a great poet. Vivid, emotional, meaningful, lucid but subtle, as always. Also, I see the change in your writing. It's less...perfect, precise. It's both of these things, but not in the way it used to be, where I could imagine you wrestling with each word as if you had all the time in the world to make them right. I like the new style. It's the better you.

11:57 PM  
Blogger infinitely more to say said...

beautifully written and so detailed and descriptive. Love how you mold your words together. I am new to bloggers and I still don't know how to follow your blog so hopefully you can help me with that.

11:23 PM  
Blogger Lashanna said...

Thanks for the quote you left in my blog. It's a much more concise and poetic way of describing how I feel right now.

I also read and enjoyed your Back in the 'Burgh article. Though I didn't grow up there, to me Pittsburgh is also home. I have been missing it very much lately. When I was in school at Pitt and I was having a difficult time with something, I'd always walk up to Phipps and think things over. I can't tell you how badly I'd like to be there right now!

1:43 PM  

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