The leafless apple trees in the old orchard
are rimed with lichen. Some are festooned
with mistletoe. Late February’s sun
lights each dark twig and branch – each evergreen leaf
and silver berry. In the distant woods,
rooks call, nest-building. Unrelenting winter,
that besieges all, is beginning
to recede. Soon, curled, fleshy leaves will come
and, eventually, fragile white blossoms.
Apples will grow. The mistle thrush will do
what it does. The mistletoe will spread.
And such relentless fecundity