though winter had almost gone
and the last remnant of frost
had just fallen from
the leaf
buds.

In the moonlight,
the branches of the old,
country orchard gleamed
like pale limbs, as if waiting
to waltz slowly
through the fields.

A northerly wind
roused the grass
that played beneath
and between
the dancers.

Flower buds,
white as the moonlight,
pink as the dawn,
had just begun to burst,
inviting hosts of bees
to alight on their branches.

Did they know their story,
these trees?
Did they remember
how Chapman had planted them,
these many years ago?
Could they see into the future
and see their fate:
how nearsighted woodsmen would come
and chop them down to plant instead
houses on streets, churches
and town halls?

No,
the moonlight had blinded them.
They could only watch
breath-baited as their flowers opened,
the bees came,
and fruit began to set,
this year no different
than the last or the next.

Content to offer up
to the world their crop each year,
the trees grew,
the grass rose and fell
as the moon waned,
just like yesterday
and just like tomorrow.