125 To Constance
There are the apple-trees that never blossom
In hasty moments when they ought to bloom.
They don't forget the insults of the autumn;
They never heal the winter in the wounds --
No cure
For the convulsions of the branches,
No treatment
For the trembling of the leaves,
No language
To translate the frightened rustle --
The sibilants that hiss at open speech.
Their bodies have become for them like ovens.
The tender hands don't reach them through the bark --
Don't pick up ripened apples in the summer,
And don't put apples in the hungry mouth.
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