Eight years ago,
We ordered fruit trees,
Full of hope and promise.
That promise went unfulfilled.
Seven years and more since
Planting three hundred or so.
If we’ve had seven fair sized-fruit
I’d be surprised.
One year I braved the ticks
And hornets
And harvested the golf ball fruits
Before the ants and wasps consumed all.
Made a few time-consuming pies and
Canned applesauce for hours—
None large enough to dry.
Turns out none of us much like applesauce.
We could have stored them for months . . .
Had the harvest been worth fixing the fridge.
We could have sold them . . .
Had we had a harvest.
Seven years and more of
Maneuvering sheep this way and that,
Of mowing around, photographing,
Hoping.
Enough of that.
The big excavator tears out the
Disease-riddled, puny,
Unproductive orchard.
Seems there’s a parable about that.
May I be more productive
Than my orchard.
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