Conrad Siever
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ot in that wasted gardenWhere bodies are drawn into grassThat feeds no flocks, and into evergreensThat bear no fruit—There where along the shaded walksVain sighs are heard,And vainer dreams are dreamedOf close communion with departed souls—But here under the apple treeI loved and watched and prunedWith gnarled handsIn the long, long years;Here under the roots of this northern-spyTo move in the chemic change and circle of life,Into the soil and into the flesh of the tree,And into the living epitaphsOf redder apples!
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