It seemed at the time like a slow road and late afternoon
When I walked past a summery turning and saw that tree in the sun.
That was my first sight of it. It stood blasted open,
Its trunk black with tar on its unsealed destruction.
You could see blue through that window, endless sky in the wound
Bright blue past the shining of black harm. And sound
Fresh wood supported branches like judge’s arms,
Crutch under branch, crutch where the low hand leaned,
Strong new wood propping that apple-tree’s crown.

And the crown? World-full, beneficent, round
Many-branching; and red, apple-red, full of juices and color-ripe,
The great crown spread on the hollow bark and lived.
Lavish and fertile, stood on her death and thrived.

For three years remembering that apple-tree,
I saw in it the life of life in crisis,
Moving over its seasons, meeting death with fruition.
I have been recognizing all I loved.

Now, after crisis of day and crisis of dream,
That tree is burning and black before my years.
I know it for a tree. Rooted and red it bears.
Apple and branch and seed.
Real, and no need to prove, never a need
For images: of process, or death, or flame, of love, or seeming, or speed.