The Apple Tree

Just a few steps,
look up, and she’s there,
her glorious, wonderful leaves in the air.

Ne’er stingy nor cold,
at all times inviting,
mid-summer has readied her fierce, so exciting!

The brothers I love reach up just for me,
climb all around, and swing up to the tree,
for nothing was sweeter, nothing so fine,
as picking that fruit in late, warm July!

With soft summer breezes 
and siblings with whom to share,
my thought nowhere else,
and my feet running bare

through gardens and grass,
take care as they flop
past small bees on clover and dandelion top.

I gather the apples dropped down from the branches,
put all in my hands as my heart gladly dances,
and dreams of what all we will do on this evening
as fireflies glow and crickets start singing.

Once dinner’s cleared,
after stars drop down,
I lie in my bed, not one peep, not one sound,

but think of tomorrow,
how berries we’ll pick,
and fill ourselves up to the brim
till we’re sick.

But never, not once, will the thought cross my mind
that I should pay closer attention to time,
for one day I’ll stop and look up at the sky,
release one bottled-up, heart-wrenching sigh,

and wonder what happened,
and wonder where went,
those love-filled days oh so well-spent

in a neighborhood that now knows me not,
in a backyard whose gardens the owner forgot,
in a house whose walls are now creeping with vines,
in a room that I thought would always be mine.