Pear tree, apple tree, green glass tree

It is mid afternoon and we haven't gone far.
Ahead of me his hand
pulls back the pear tree branch.
I duck under and, briefly, a golden pear lies
against my hair, heavy as a chant
in a foreign language. I turn

as though in church again, as though I turned
towards a far
light, a nonsensical chant,
tremendous, opaque, cupping hands.
As though I could lie
along the length of this green branch—

faith. But in that branching
maze I have stumbled every turn.
So I follow the land's lay
and go too far
for green glass trees and mighty hands
and all those enchantments.

The children start up a plaintive, nursery chanting
recalling their own hallway like a branch
from which their bedrooms blossom every night. I take their hands
and both heads turn
towards me but their eyes are far
away back home in their bedrooms where they lie

each night—lie
like little dashes in the long, spell-binding chant
page 62 of night. 'How far!'
they yell. Their arms stiffen like branches
and their hands turn
angrily inside my hands.

He slips free of me and his white hand
darkens a nest where three eggs lie.
They want to wait for the bird's return.
She starts a sing-song chant.
A bird bobs along a branch.
Too far, it sings back. Too far, too far.

It's night time and we have gone too far to return.
The lay of broken branches makes a scratchy chant.
The children flush out birds with their quick hands.