WEBVTT

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Orchard.

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The mare roamed soft
about the slope,

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her rump was like
a dancing girl's.

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Gentle beneath the apple
trees she pulled the grass

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and shook the flies.

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Her forelocks hung
in tawny curls.

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She had a woman's limpid
eyes, a woman's patient stare

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that grieves.

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And when she moved among the
trees, the dappled trees,

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her look was shy, she hid
her nakedness in leaves.

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A delicate though
weighted dance she

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stepped while flocks of
finches flew from tree to tree

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and shot the leaves with
songs of golden twittering.

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How admirable her tender stance.

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And then the apple trees
were new, and she was new,

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and we were new,
and in the barns

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the stallions stamped and shook
the hills with trumpeting.

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