The time of trimming trees is not yet here
And while the rains still pour we let them grow;
Crowding their branchy limbs without a care,
The twigs burst bud on bud along each bough.
But some day soon when the slaking sun seethes hot,
We’ll come with ladders and clip the crisping leaves—
Those yellow fringers burnt in the June drought
That overpopulate our apple groves.
We will wipe off our brows the sweaty beads
And watch the leaves rustle their final tryst.
For some will fall, a thousand twirling shades,
While others waft aloft on whirling gusts.