N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  1  1

INGRID SWANBERG


the pure

the gnarled trees of the old orchard

stand motionless

in the pure light of high summer,

their small green apples fallen

into the parched grass


the white goat walks toward us

along a fallen log,

unafraid


high above

a jet silently tears the sky


kiss me you fool