in dormancy. Prove me wrong.
——-—Not visually, no. But of the feel
—————-—of apples weighing down a branch. Of rain
————————–—against its canopy, of ground loosening
—————-—to mud around its feeder roots. Of petals
——-—opening—what is the feel of a petal opening?
More delicate than an eyelid
rising over the surface of the eye.
——-—Of steps thumping around its trunk,
—————-—a lawnmower growling
————————–—too near. Of leaves releasing
—————-—like a body relaxing—keys, wallet, phone
——-—sliding from the palm. Or the reverse,
fallen leaves returning, the pucker end
snapping back on the branch, the dried brown
——-—uncrinkling like a pins-and-needles
—————-—limb massaged back into feeling.
————————–—And the occasional nightmare.
—————-—Of the graft knot—what binds scion
——-—to rootstock—loosening, like a sweat-slick
hand suspending it over a cliff
slipping. Or, no, not as a nightmare:
——-—the scion, the whole upper part of the tree
—————-—rising like a hot air balloon.
————————–—And the other trees rising too,
—————-—the cloud-bound flock still orchard-gridded.
——-—If anything could have ancestral memory,
wouldn’t it be a grafted thing?
Every Granny Smith, a clone some millions
——-—of times removed of the first fluke
—————-—of Granny Smith, every Mac
————————–—a cutting of a cutting of a cutting back
—————-—to Mac’s trial-and-error happy landing.
——-—So maybe, now and then, a dream
of unaccustomed weight dangling
from its fingertips, and the astonished
——-—realization of holding
—————-—something sweeter than it had ever
————————–—held before, something entirely new.
Benjamin S. Grossberg’s books of poetry include My Husband Would, winner of the Connecticut Book Award, and Sweet Core Orchard (both from Tampa), winner of a Lambda Literary Award.
