Spring leaving jonquil footprints called and stirred
My slumbrous will--The tree in full-blown flower
Spiralled her petals down and sang the word,
The new green word that woke the fruit-bud hour.
The golden summer danced across the field,
Crimsoned the fruit upon the laden bough;
Matured and ripened me to give my yield,
Yet hear my cry: What of the fruitage now?
Swift came the wind and shrill--Still wild it flings
Its wrath: The bough is lightened, torn and tossed,
And only one dwarfed withering apple clings--
Storm-bent and ravished, I too wait the frost.
Forlorn the tree, yet poignant-sweet my sorrow
If wind-reaped fruit will give seed for tomorrow.
(The above published in Path to Home, 1962)
Version Two:
Spring, and the slumbrous I was stirred --
The tree in full-bloom flower
Spiralling, dancing petals down,
Awoke the fruit-bud hour.
Summer, fulfilling, sang in me --
Heavily laden, the bough --
Ripened, mature for giving, was I.
(What of the fruitage now?)
Muted my song in the wind's wild shrill --
Lightened the bough and tossed:
Only one withering apple clings --
Storm-maimed, I wait the frost.
Mendicant-forlorn, the tree --
Poignantly sweet my sorrow,
If in the ripened wind-reaped fruit
Is seed for tomorrow.
(Published in The Relief Society Magazine, September 1961)
