Orchard

 

Ten years ago, my father planted some trees 

In a small orchard; three acres, not a tenth 

The size of what he had farmed for many years 

Before. Later, he moved the house where I had spent 

My adolescence to that orchard, where my folks 

Now live but, in their eighties, they are too bent 

With age to care for the trees, pear and walnut boughs 

Grow unpruned, leaves crowd buds from bearing. 

Weeds grow around the trunks. But for Frank Machado, 

An old neighbor, running a disc harrow once along 

The rows, the weeds would be everywhere. Branches, 

Dry from lack of water, are brittle and dying. 

Fruit struggles to grow to half size, will never reach 

The markets. Whole trees have died, still rooted. 

My wife and I enter gingerly, searching 

For a lone plum tree in this orchard. It’s fruit 

Should just be ripening. My father once had thousands 

Of these trees. I know them well. We want to choose 

Some ripened plums to take back to my parents. 

We find the tree with two score plums just turned 

Purple. We cradle the ripest fruit in our hands 

And bring them to the house. When I’ve given 

One to my Dad, I serve grace with this harvest. 

He bites slowly into it, savors his land.