The orchard dwarves come like that in the flat bed, pregnant
with themselves, plumped on the sod in a medicine
ball lump of burlap like an amputee's stump-sock. They tilt
at each other in the morning shadow, green pears swinging
like prickly leftover ornaments on their frowzy boughs.
Boots in the foyer. Festoons of carrot, garlic,
turnips and onions swag the doorway that opens
to the only light. Press their untasted cheeks against
the nutrient walls. Up three stairs in the November wind
the spring trees have dropped their shawls and mingle silver
fingers in an arch dance. The kettle on the farmhouse stove
taps too. Boils tin water for stew.