This spring hail hit the apples
and the tiny marks became divots.
Into the stew pot more apples,
still in their skin and pocked.
Smooth black seeds
keep rising to the surface.
Outside, the trees are oblivious
to the disorder of their bodies,
the divots in their offspring
bear them no shame.
It's all the same to them,
same sweet flesh,
same irregular songs sung
by the mockingbird as by the wind,
and all beautiful, the same song
sung by footsteps
as by shears radiant against
the black branches.