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.