We've been out again
on the backroads,
buying things. Here's
a permanent harvest:
an apple and four cherries
stenciled on a chair-back,
the arm-wood glowing,
so human,
from within, where the
red paint's
been worn away by
how many arms
at rest. Polished and
placed
by the blue table and
the windows
that frame the back gar-
den,
it's a true consolation,
necessary, become this
through its own wearing
away
by use, festive with its
once-bright
fruit. Anything lived into
long enough
becomes an orchard.
I love the brooks
which down their
channels fret
Even more than when
I tripped lightly
as they
Mark Doty
My Alexandria
Poems
The Wings
T.S. Eliot Prize
1993
op. cit.
William Wordsworth
Intimations of Immortality
from Recollections of Early
Childhood
1802
Poetry Foundation, 2014©
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