Clouds

A whip-poor-will brushed

Her wing along the ground

A moment ago, fifty years

In the orchard where my father kept pear and plum,

A decade of peach trees and Antinovka’s apples

Whose seeds come from Russia by ship

Under clouds is landing

A window very past where also went the soul of my mother in a

boat with blossoming

Sails like apple petals

In wind fifty years at once.