My father holds an apple in his right hand
As if it were a curve ball soon to be
In flight to home plate at the Fenway
But he is standing in the backyard looking at his garden
Anchored by a birch tree cupping an oriole nest
Threaded with fine grass and strips of bark
From the post and rail. When he takes a bite
Under his newsboy cap, I can tell
He is chewing a mathematical equation
A prototype for a spaceship.
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