Apples and Stones
By Alice Wolf Gilborn
When the river spills from its banks,
rushes down the road, it brings us gifts
from its heart—sand and rocks
and something else—
apples—shaken from laden trees,
hundreds of them, so when the water
withdraws it leaves a line of apples and stones
across all the yards on the street.
We flee from the muddy current as we
would from a snake's tongue licking
the fence lines, the grass, the arborvitae.
We return to pools and rivulets in the fields,
water in the cellar two feet deep.
The day after the flood, power is out
and people are out on the street—the fire
truck pumps basements, others dump
dirt on washed out driveways, pick up
begins. We compare damages.
Later the excavator crawls up the road
to the spot where the river boiled over,
shoves the channel back to its bed. The way
over the mountain is strewn with boulders.
But we can cross a bridge to town, leave our
mud flats, yesterday's gardens. We can stay.
Butterflies sip from sagging roses.
Claudia next door brings us a hibiscus cutting
from a bush in her yard, a pink tissuey flower
that lasts a day. Put it in water and it will grow
roots, she says. She tosses her apples into the field
for the deer. Ours just disappear.
Months later we wear an apron of sand
and stones on our grass, not as a badge
of courage or to show that we've suffered,
but as a mark of respect—
for change that lurks in every dry bed
for the fact that we can be routed again
for the truth that rivers will have their way.
Source: https://kelsaybooks.com/products/apples-stones
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