Larch Tree

Oh, larch tree with scarlet berries

sharpen the morning slender sun

sharpen the thin taste of September

with your aroma of sweet wax and powder delicate.

Fruit is falling in the valley

breaking on the snouts of foxes

breaking on the wooden crosses

where children bury the shattered bird.

Fruit is falling in the city

blowing a woman’s eyes and fingers

across the street among the bones

of boys who could not speak their love.

I watch a starling cut the sky

a dagger through the blood of cold,

and grasses bound by strings of wind

stockade the sobbing fruit among the bees.

Oh, larch tree, with icy hair

your needles thread the thoughts of snow,

while in the fields a shivering girl

takes to her breasts the sad ripe apples.