Crabapples strewn. I knew that lure
would draw our blackbirds round the trunk.
What do they care the fruit is sour?
I like their pluck. Let’s us devour
each acrid chunk
of windfall, too, before our hour
lapses. I mean the fruit that’s grown
to globes of rude maturity
on no such tree a bird has known,
that sinks its roots and spreads its crown
through you to me
and shakes its hard tart offspring down.
