The Fruit Thereof

Apple trees gorging
      on sidewise light
of prairie sunset—

half-hid, slithery
      whistlings drop from
blossoms, like petals,

like hints. Drawn in,
      I can spy
a flock of waxwings

green-gold like ripening
      fruit. Some of them pluck
petals in their beaks—

and swallow them!
      I'm thinking—who,
in six God-long days

of creation, would have devised
      such a subtle meal?
What pink knowledge

crosses their tongues?
      The waxwings answer
each other in whistles.

Copyright © 2003 William Wenthe All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission