The apple tree

I see the picture on the canvas        
must believe it true, are the colours so ?        
ether-wards I know not where it comes.        
Each day it grows as in the wood,        
the paint still wet and shall for days        
man and oils and turpentine,        
rags, a brush and more . . . . . . . .    
       
It is the more that makes the difference        
I do not have that more, I have much less        
so here I watch to see the apple grow,        
pruned to crop each year,        
engineered limbs to carry fruit        
drawn for gallery walls.        
       
Today I walk another wood,        
bright sun with thickening shadows,        
Corsican, tall, commercial as the apple,        
statuesque  ranks, dark not apple green,        
cathedral naves and chanting        
breeze swaying in their tops        
open, free, sun and midnight owl        
uncompromising, stiff as marble columns        
worship and belief beneath a heavy roof.        
Some day, foresters, with regret and axe,        
will glean the tall to cart away        
making toys and fences, chairs,        
a wood too soft for church.
It must be oak. !        
       
At six home to see again,        
a painting on the easel,        
subtle changes in its branches        
naked, stark, muscular and dark        
not dressed in springtime buds.        
Will the picture hold the day        
and if, which, rain, sun, cloud or blue,        
thunder, swirling cloud and frightened dogs?        
Shall I see the leaves and flowers,        
apples, blushing red and gold        
weighing down branches,        
sandwich, coffee and a folding chair?        
       
May never be  complete, or even as intended,        
listen to the tree, press, the bark,        
counting heart-beats, listening to rhymes.       
There is a message, do you hear?        
The poet's eye and painter's ear,        
From first you smear the canvas,        
dream a master-piece,lose your will,        
here is more than simple apple.        
       
       
Let fear subside and cast        
away its debilitations        
wave the palms not your spears,        
their shade this sunny day        
more worth than the blood        
which does not quench thirsty        
ambition's rampant dreams that        
turn to earth’s realities.        
Fear itself the coward.  
 
Epilogue       
       
Yesterday's clouds disperse        
soft blue lavender, see the bee    
soft and vunerable climb        
from its earthly porch        
to scent the air, search for        
nectars waiting the bold,        
the air swept by waving palms,        
spears to plough the earth,        
the apple tree to guide your brush        
your brush to guide my pen.