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Fruit Trees in the Mist
Bare mountain, foothills,
stone terraces stretch away
moonlight flickers, slides wan
through cloud banks
dark with bulging rain
On the ground, rows of gray trees
stand naked in the mist
rows without end, east to west
and north, across and up
thin branches, witches fingernails,
point skywards, curl incantations
or prayers, the swirling fog drifts
undecided which from that
Within a few short months
these fingers will conjure buds and leaves
white and pink fairy blossoms
warmed by the sun, fruit will appear;
apples, Starking and Delicious,
blushing nectarines, plums, persimmons
a canvas of shaking green, red and gold
to paint these hills of Galilee
in impressionist splendour
But tonight the witches rule these slopes
raising the wind, curling their fingernails
the anxious moon and darkening sky
cry out to me, run home, run home
to warmth and hearth, run home before
the storm descends, run home
Still I linger yet a moment, gasping,
drinking the scene, my every pore open
to the rain as now it comes, a torrent
from the sky, an angry ocean whipping all
lashing, lashing. One minute longer I stand,
my clothes wet slapping rags, capsizing boats.
Part of me, a ghost, a skeleton, who knows,
escapes the confining garments and stands
naked as the trees, arms raised, fingers
stretching upwards, exulting in the storm.
In answer, a flash of lightning illuminates
the terraces and thunder roars
across the stretching rows
I turn and run, a rain phantom, racing home
to hearth, safety and dry again, to bed
to dream that once again I am a tree
dancing with those witches in the rain
© Johnmichael Simon
2007
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