There is a clearing with an apple tree,

A clearing in the woods that are tractless now,

And an apple, above the reach of deer,

Above the nibbled lower branches hangs,

Optimistically, daringly, there.

 

This clearing with the apple tree,

Sunny on sunny days, like now, rare,

At this latitude, at this altitude,

Where lufting clouds part reluctantly,

Occasionally and fleetingly,

So sun can warm the fern dappled ground,

And the brave, uneaten upper leaves,

With the lone apple of the apple tree.

 

Into the clearing walks a woman and a little girl,

In dresses, both, they pause, catching breath,

Taking in the surprise of the place,

Relief from the relentless thicket of woods,

The woods that are tractless now.

 

The taller one looks up and around, then bends down,

Picking up a crumpled bucket with a bullet hole,

The little one comes over and touches it, the bullet hole,

And they talk about cows and milking, maybe,

And could that be the reason for the clearing,

Milk and apples, food of man, foothold in the forest,

The people gone and the clearing still here,

With a lone apple on the apple tree.

 

They stand beside each other,

The bucket still hanging from her hand,

No milk here, or the possibility of milk now,

Lost in thoughts,

Until the clouds clear the sun again,

And she tosses the relic down and takes her daughter’s hand,

And leads her to a bush drooping with raspberries.

​

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