To Speak of Joy That Is in Marriage

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.