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Sunday, April 24, 2022

Sant Jordi #24

    After the Hail 

          for Pep, 24 years later 

The apple tree died while I 
was gone, its bark stripped 
and fallen back to the pot, 
the largest one on the terrace.

Stark, nobby branches choked 
by equally dead morning glory 
tendrils hold sacs of seeds 
stiffly in the April wind. 

Both dead things remain 
to train the thick nasturtium 
stalks with their wealth 
of perpetual sunset. 

Opposite, the barely salvaged 
pine tree pushes its newborn 
needles towards the sun. They
follow east to south to west. 

Among all the dead branches 
in sunburned pots bursting 
with wild garlic, clover, asparagus, 
the surprise of this tall purple iris. 


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