That spring after my brother’s death
I worked in an orchard. Young, good
with a ladder, I pruned apple trees,
lopped crossed limbs, nipped spurs,
and comforted myself with the notion
my brother was busy underground
carefully disentangling the long roots,
season after season, tree by tree;
but now I know there are people
who tread the earth like water
because below them their dead
are trying to grasp their ankles
and pull them under, so I know
how lucky I am and how grateful
I ought to be: sick for long years
my brother begrudged me nothing.
for R.J.H. 1950-1972
