Old apple trees
Malus comes from malice, the apple, the first woman. How much sense does that make.
In the orchard at my mom’s new farm. First spring, the snow melts to reveal wild strawberries, clover, dead chickens.
Pruned, one was a plum, sharp spurs and a peeling bark.
The apple trees so large, water sprouts turned to heavy branches push through the center of the tree, dead limbs covered in lichen hang precariously in the canopy. Too much to do with my secateurs, when we went into town we got a good loppers at the hardware store. Could have even used a big saw, too. Leaned a heavy homemade ladder against the trunk and went up as high as possible, stepping into the tree when I needed to. There’s nothing that I can say here that I need to, but every old thing that could be said and wasn’t is covered in moss, an object itself. And new things sprout up.
Two small cherry trees had been girdled around the trunks during the winter- not by rabbits though, the bark had been gnawed off by tiny teeth only below the snow line- it was mice or voles. Despite the severity of the damage they still held their buds.
In an adjacent clearing two vigorous pear trees stood. Never having been staked, one leaned at a steep angle. I wondered if they were on dwarfing rootstocks. I hoped so, but couldn’t see a graft union. They did have large clusters of flower buds already though, young trees that they were.