Orchard

I saw the first pear	
as it fell—
the honey-seeking, golden-banded,	
the yellow swarm	
was not more fleet than I,	        
(spare us from loveliness)	
and I fell prostrate	
crying:	
you have flayed us	
with your blossoms,	        
spare us the beauty	
of fruit-trees.	
 
The honey-seeking	
paused not,	
the air thundered their song,	        
and I alone was prostrate.	
 
O rough-hewn	
god of the orchard,	
I bring you an offering—	
do you, alone unbeautiful,	        
son of the god,	
spare us from loveliness:	
 
these fallen hazel-nuts,	
stripped late of their green sheaths,	
grapes, red-purple,	        
their berries	
dripping with wine,	
pomegranates already broken,	
and shrunken figs	
and quinces untouched,	        
I bring you as offering.