The Yielding and the Unyielding

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Not yet fall, orchard vines outweigh their fruit.

Some of these nights my son and I sleep
together, his small body and the September nights

too warm. All night long our arms and legs
spell out messages beneath the sheets—

the wrong language for each of us.

You, mother and wife, in your hospital bed,
dream walking, cradling your six month belly

with both hands and there is no end of hallways.
We are all restless.

Meanwhile, the vines govern what they can
across the orchard, an inelegant stitching

holding firm the earth itself.