The Lemon Tree

Why do I come here, at night,

when the shadows are darkest?


The shade of the lemon tree is as black as water,

but I can see moonlight shining

on the rock wall and the apple orchard,


and on the yard and field imprinted by my hands,

which sweated,

and tossed lupine seeds into the chopped earth.


Shrugging away dirt, flowers sprout in the yard, and, in the field,

vegetables. Both are translucent,

but the vegetables are taller.


The well beyond the rock wall

is black, narrow and deep.

Inside, the darkness of compressed matter.


When I drop the rope, the bucket falls:

in the spring, a short distance,

in August, forever.


I will stay here until morning doves begin rooting

for half-rotten apples, the sky in the east is gray —

until each tomato plant is visible in its row,

unrolling fresh tendrils,

tied to a stick with white string.