The grandeur of sky and sea is awesome, but
in an orchard, one notices
small wonders every season
Each turn of weather
bears fruit, cleaving to the vines
clinging for clemency from storms
Dimpled valentines of berries,
tiny jewels—red and radiant
black and blue—fill baskets
Pierced in their prime, flushed
pinks and reds, noble nectars flow
from peaches, plucked from branches
In autumn, apples line rows of meadows.
Succulent still, as once to Eve; the apple’s
robust beauty tempts each hidden desire
Hardy seeds become the fruit of life
and we, our sight and taste reborn
from fertile soil the farmer tills,
are awed in silent ways
as we eat our fill
to offer thanks and praise
for dappled days
This poem appears in Theresa’s poetry collection, Shy, published by Finishing Line Press.
New England Memories 