My apple tree is blooming, which means I’ll have apples in the fall. I love the apple blossoms – just barely brushed with pink. The promise of bearing fruit …
It makes me think of the very first poem I wrote. I believe I was probably around 8 years old or so (and it has since been revised) – which was interesting because we never had an apple tree anywhere close by our house when I was growing up. Funny how the imagination can work.
As the last leaf falls
and spins gently to the earth,
I think of the quiet, peaceful days
spent sitting in the branches
of our old apple tree.
I would climb to my hideaway
sometimes to read,
sometimes to sing
or simply stare at the sky in silence.
Always I ate the tart, juicy apples
and dropped the cores to the ground;
staying hidden by the branches
as the bark scratched my legs,
with the leaves softly brushing my face,
Lost in my own peaceful world.