She is a bitter woman, and her words
Fall from her lips like apples from a bough
Stone on the morning of a frost. Like birds
Driven from carrion her eyes are now.
And when she laughs she makes a sound like things
That children are afraid of on the stairs.
She is awry as if she once had wings
And kept them secret in the waist she wears.
She is a barren thing. But curiously,
Last night, where dusk had made the maples brown
We passed, and like a picture I could see
An old dwarf pear we never did cut down.