Poetry Archives

The walk that led out through the apple trees—
the narrow, crumbling path of brick embossed
among the clumps of grass, the scattered leaves—

has vanished now.  Each spring the peonies
come back, to drape their heavy bolls across
the walk that led out through the apple trees,

as if to show the way—until the breeze
dismantles them, and petals drift and toss
among the clumps of grass.  The scattered leaves

half fill a plaited basket left to freeze
and thaw, and gradually darken into moss.
The walk that led out through the apple trees

has disappeared—unless, down on your knees,
searching beneath the vines that twist and cross
among the clumps of grass, the scattered leaves—

you scrape, and find—simplest of mysteries,
forgotten all this time, but not quite lost—
the walk that led out through the apple trees
among the clumps of grass, the scattered leaves.