And in those days, I was broken from dreams
on hard, white mornings to whip the thickets,

flush a bird or two, and drop
before the shot sizzled by overhead.

Midday, we'd crest a hill
crowned with the Albemarle pippins

King George so loved, it's said
he took his taxes from the trees—

a cue ball of an apple still growing free
on shaggy limbs no one had pruned for years.

A country then with forgotten groves of gamey fruit—
you'd poke the big blade of a jackknife

below its rusted skin, twist,
and up popped a white chip,

a severed tang, with the sound
of parchment crisply ripping.

It lay on the tongue like hoarfrost,
its aftertaste sour and defiant...

Its seeds were hard as flint,
and the grass below as dry as tinder.