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Young Apple Tree, December What you want for it what you’d want for a child: that she take hold; that her roots find home in stony winter soil; that she take seasons in stride, seasons that shape and reshape her; that like a dancer’s, her limbs grow pliant, graceful and surprising; that she know, in her branchings, to seek balance; that she know when to flower, when to wait for the returns; that she turn to a giving sun; that she know to share fruit as it ripens, that what’s lost to her will be replaced; that early summer afternoons, a full blossoming tree, she cast lacy shadows; that change not frighten her, rather change meet her embrace; that remembering her small history, she find her place in an orchard; that she be her own orchard; that she outlast you; that she prepare for the hungry world, the fallen world, the loony world, something shapely, useful, new, delicious.
From YOU CAN’T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME and ZEPPO’S FIRST WIFE (University of Chicago Press, 2001 and 2005, respectively)
Gail Mazur's reading at Smith November 13, 2007
More poems (and longer bio) by Gail Mazur
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