Self-doubt

Beneath the cypress and the willow
raking the clouds, by the honey 
locust combing sweetly 
the waft that enters the window
there is the sturdy crab apple
tramping its roots on hot earth. 
No one bothers with its fruit, not even 
the robin who knows the deep tannins 
of its life have made it too sour to eat
too much acid coursing through its bark 
and blossom. Through the summers 
and the autumn its ruby droplets surge 
and slump, surge and slump, mouldering 
its malic base without any thought 
of harvest. I know that in another garden
far away a boy is foraging for his mother
who washes each globe, mashes
the pulp, and boils them with sugar to soothe
the sour, to calm the fight, saying 
you are worthy, you are sweet enough 
spreading the resulting amber between 
two buttery brioche, and a family, full 
and satiated at breakfast
by your humble, prolific magic.