She Returns to the Farm

          (with memories of Tom Rickman)

It is raining. There are apples.

It is. There are. Apples, rain, mud,

land. Land not built on. Yet. At 

night, such quiet, much quiet,

too much . . . .

The reckless ones died early.

The cautious ones grew old and died.

The orchard grew into a farm, 

which grew into an operation. 

Thus orchard, a young grafted

tree,  became a mature

producer. Which became an

autonomous hybrid banyan/apple

tree walking around the place,

planting itself. She

does/doesn't understand. 

It is raining. There are apples.

The money is good. She can't stay. 

hans ostrom 2021

Regarding Planted Trees

The trees I've planted in several
locales on this West Coast
have their own lives. They
must manage sap, paint leaves,
then cast them off, then more
leaves, blossoms, plums, apples . . .
Birds and insects consider
these trees to be airports

and resorts for summer avian
tourists. From a window
I can see the sensualist fig
tree spread its branches
voluptuously. It produces
shamelessly extravagant leaves.
Months from now it will let
figs swell, harden, soften
lasciviously. Thank God 
I planted that tree, I murmur
sometimes to myself, quietly.


hans ostrom 2020

Eve's Note to Adam

Thank you for the box
of twigs. How did you come to think
to save them? And the pebbles, too.
Pebbles and twigs, apples
and figs, ah what a summer it was
even though we got evicted.



hans ostrom 2018