Open to All Kenneth Pobo



The cherry blossom
and the moon
form a bent white bow.
An arrow of red cherries
sinking over a hill.

I am falling in the pit
of a cherry, dreaming
of death.
Scent of tall grass.


The Mogul Emperor Akbar
loved mangoes.
He ordered 100,000 trees.
More than the fruit,
he craved the space
around each green
planet in the copper night.

Aziz said he saw
his master run naked
in the orchard

whenever the dark leaves
glistened in the rain.


In Door County, Wisconsin,
the apple orchard
flung along a highway,
pieces of Stonehenge dancing.

I remember a gnarled tree.
Shrunken green apples rolling
on a gray table
cloth with four crows.


Five sparrows drunk from
grapes lying on sticky grass
like open bottles


Come to the orchards!

At dusk
roots suck up the red
water of the sky.

Trees are vapor
drifting across
early leanings of the moon.
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