Karla Linn Merrifield
Old Ed Rose was a truck farmer
so I'm told. Owned land along
the lake shore, planted it wholly
with apple trees in several varieties.
Pruned and picked, fertilized
and sprayed Red Delicious,
MacIntosh, Ida Reds through
five decades of winter storms,
summer draughts, spring
freezes, autumn blights.
He died and his wife sold off
the strip of orchard by the water
to cottagers like me who
ripped out the Winesaps to plant
a bungalow and a row of ornamentals
for shade and wind break.
A few Rose trees survived. I see them
on my daily walks, a Macoun here,
a Granny Smith there, still bearing
the fruit of Ed Rose the Farmer's labors,
his truck long gone to rust in a fallow field.