some poems take a dozen years to come to themselves

There is no gap between poetry and agriculture. Twenty years ago, my friend Mike planned a Beurre D'Anjou pear tree. It grew and grew.

"I love pears," said Mike. "When am I going to get pears?"

"Not yet," I said.

The tree grew taller. Within seven years, without a blossom to show for it, it was the tallest tree in Mike's orchard. 

"Can't you prune that tree so it can give me some pears?" asked Mike. "Can't you shorten that thing? I don't have a ladder that tall."

"Just wait," I said.

For many years, Mike was doubtful. I didn't prune the tree at all. It grew tangled and messy. The Sterile Codling Moth Release technicians put a codling moth trap in it, because it was such a landmark.

Finally, when the tree was twelve years old, it came into the spring covered in fruit buds, on wood that the year before hadn't shown a single one. 

"You're going to get three hundred kilos of pears," I said to Mike. 

"Good," he said. "It's about time. I love pears"

That year, I pruned the tree for the first time. I cut out four big branches with my saw.

"Don't cut out all my pears!" said Mike.

"Don't worry," I said. "It's time."

...

Some poems take a dozen years to come to themselves in this way. They, too, are not financially justifiable. So? If you worried about that, you wouldn't have any poems.

- Harold Rhenisch, from his book of essays The Tree Whisperer: Writing Poetry by Living in the World (Gaspereau Press, 2022).