To hoe, not only to protect fruit
but this toddler apple tree’s future.
Sharp blades reveal grassy hiding places,
between sore arms and slim trunk, where rabbit, vole and mouse
otherwise curl, chew away bark, tender wood.
Above, large-lunged apples breathe sighs of relief,
their progeny safe for another winter, a sturdy white spiral
at foot stands special guard.
How can this sapling,
with only slight encouragement from bees,
issue forth something called a granny?
I pick a prime one as reward,
blazing green, speckled, slightly blushing,
smelling faintly of tea,
And make anywhere I choose
to take each tart bite,
a hiding place for me.