One should not have an orchard andNot care for it; so she tries,Even lurches from the depths of a chair
She's found at some thrift, pre-softened; fromHer house, warm or cool as she might wish,Out into too much sun or too much rain; fromUnder the kind roof of a porch she'd built,Leaving tool after tool there to gatherDust and webs, marks of a new will to
Neglect. Beyond the weed-bent fence, anOrchard of sorts awaits her care, eachTask having skipped two years at least. 
Hands grasp lopper and saw. She visitsApple, quince, pear, plum, cherry, clippingVines, tall weeds, watersprouts, suckers;Even designates branches for her stove.
As the forenoon warms, she strips offNow her hat, next jacket, shirt and gloves,
Old skin offered to thorns, thistles, Rough bark. Really she'd meant to hire it done, Children of neighbors being short on cash.Habit, she could call it. Habit, and the wayApples come best that see right sun,Ripe enough to pay her for some pains.Do a thing yourself to see it through.