I have a neighbor who runs an apple orchard.
And he's not a suspicious type of person,
but he had been told that if you talk to the trees
while you're pruning them, that they'll bear better fruit.
And in a skeptical frame of mind, he nevertheless tried it.
And he took one row of 100 trees,
and as he pruned the trees, he whispered little gentle
nothings to the trees.
And by God, he said it worked, that they bore clearly better
fruit than the other trees.
This poem is a poem, is set where
I'm pruning the trees on my own land,
and I'm teaching, instructing my son in the proper way
to prune the trees.
So part of the poem is the father
giving the son instructions on how to prune trees.
But part of the poem is the father's own meditation
to himself, which is not spoken out loud.
And in his own meditation, his mind moves between two seasons.
He's in March at one time in his mind,
and June in another time in his mind.
So the poem shifts back and forth
in his mind between these two seasons.
And I hope you can follow the difference between when
the father is thinking thoughts to himself
and when he's speaking to his son.
"Pruning fruit trees.
Begin by cutting all branches away that are now dead.
It is March, when surely feels in the air
a softness that has not yet arrived.
The cut must be made close to the parent limb,
following the angle of its growth.
Used snow, inches deep, shows yesterday's boot prints,
my son's and mine, circling each other, circling each tree.
With two equal branches now divide, choose one and cut.
It is not good that they contend for vital sap,
the cut must be made close to the parent limb,
soon it will smoothly heal.
The chickadee scold us by their feeder, they have their rights.
Don't be afraid to cut.
That's it, cut more.
It's good for the tree, lengthening life,
making its fruitful.
A farmer told me to talk to the trees,
tell them, "This is good for you", speak softly, thank them.
It is June.
Our footprints faintly circle the trees in the moist grass.
Like little berries, the fruit is hard, they will make it,
they will hold on.
See, they will hold on, they will ripen, they will do well.
It is June.
I have learned to ask for nothing more.
I have never been happier than this.
Tell them they will do well.
As wind flutters their leaves, praise them.
It is March.
The cut must be made close to the parent limb."