sundell

sundell
doran damon okkema

there's an old apple tree
in the backyard
too small to be of much good
and no fruit

but when the snow falls
in october each year
the chickadees gather
and chatter for a while

hop lightly
from branch to branch
and tease the cat
circling below

behind the house
past the wood pile
the placenta tree
past the pond and creek

the fields and marsh
past nine miles
of forest between
it lies deep in its bed

the hush of dark waters
cold lake superior
whispers its way back
and spoons me to sleep