125 To Constance
There are the apple-trees that never blossom
In hasty moments when they ought to bloom.
They don't forget the insults of the autumn;
They never heal the winter in the wounds --
For the convulsions of the branches,
For the trembling of the leaves,
To translate the frightened rustle --
The sibilants that hiss at open speech.
Their bodies have become for them like ovens.
The tender hands don't reach them through the bark --
Don't pick up ripened apples in the summer,
And don't put apples in the hungry mouth.