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Paul Goldfinger. ©

A poem by Charles Pierre



Apple Corners


Those for whom life is local and rooted,
for whom a house receives a name like a child,

know why these trees at compass points of a yard
endure as markers. The couple who planted them

have both passed on; the sign with ornate letters
no longer swings from a post by the road;

and kids seldom dare to stuff their pockets
from the scatter of fallen fruit. Yet the name

still lingers in the shaded air, its sweet sounds
of rootedness living on the lips of locals.