Behind the stone house on the hillside     there is a patch
of wild apple trees.  Probably a quarter acre, more or less
last year    when I used round stones from the creek
to stack into a stone house       I didn't think anything was strange
but this spring        on a dawn that scattered the blue mist
the valley showed me this marvelous landscape:
dense thickets of white flowers like the porcelain of a shy woman bathing
shining soul-stealingly right behind the house... plain thoughtless —
even if the beauty is secret, how could its neighbor not know?
I think: this grove cannot be visited whenever one wishes
have to wait for early summer    a sunset when the wind kicks up suddenly
when ripe fruit patters down onto the roof
I'll drink creek water         taste what I've been given
until the tart sweetness enters the marrow of my bones...