by Marge Piercy
I am sitting under an apple tree
but it bears no apples, barren
tree. The yellow leaves that blow
into my lap are from a willow.
Most of the apple leaves are green
still thick so I canít identify the small
birds frisking in the canopy.
If you were here, we would stroll
beside this toad brown river
pouring rapidly west to where
it will gather and leap down
over a ledge, frothing white.
The river rushes west.
The wind pushes east
flapping banners so they coil
on themselves. The clouds
rumble east overhead, darkening.
Ducks complain on the water
about each other, each drake
fussing over his convoy harem.
Everything I see feels incomplete.
I am telling you in my head
but the words collapse on themselves.
The river is fast but the hours
limp by. I am only part.
Half is missing, miles away.
Copyright © 2010 by Marge Piercy.