Patois Poem by R. T. Smith

Haze in the orchard
white as a harp's voice.
Each word has fluent
roots, and we love
to believe in the way
syllables flower, how
each noise arises
from the Latin, Saxon,
African and Norse,
the manner of wood
forming, sleek apples
like hearts or a legion
of lance-pointed leaves.
Formal, the marriage
of blossom to blossom,
the priest bee transforming
pollen. From each branch
a single soloist stepping
forth from the chorus,
a bird sowing melody,
quick weft threading
the orchard's warp,
one verb in its slow arc
entering the soil,
smooth as a seed.