Apple Tree


Old things fill me with such deep feelings of nostalgia.  It is as if they contain an essence of goodness and profundity that has somehow become lost and forgotten.  They are voices of lives and things far away but not diminished in value for their distance.  This poem highlights some of these, trying to catch that uncatchable essence.


The tree has grown
for some seasons now. Golden
apples hang unpicked,
falling one by one
as breezes blow
and neighbors jostle, to cider
in the soil, enriching
first yellow jackets,
then slugs and worms and grass
still green in Fall.

The old brick bungalow,
white paint peeling,
has gone unlived in
for many years now. The smoke
is stilled, and the chimney soot
is old and cold. She was
born here, birthed
in her mama’s brass bed.
She played in the ditch,
munched raw oats, picked
nosegays of daisies and asters,
and planted pips
from a golden apple
in a secret spot of soil.

The misted vase has sat
empty upon the table
for so very long now. Dust has settled
into stem and petal etchings, caught
upon dry, white mineral rings. Outside,
beside bungalow brick,
hyacinths, daffodils, tulips,
irises rise in rows
to bloom each Spring,
bidden only
by sun and warm soil.


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