Photo by Illiya Vjestica on Unsplash

The apple tree in this garden,
a crone bent against the wind,
ragged against a winter sky.

Once one of two, standing side by side,
both of them took our breath away each spring,
As myriad blooms cascaded from treetop to the ground.

Her sister tree long since returned to earth,
ashes strewn on April soil,
she remains, now laced with woodpecker holes.

That set of ancient bones,
Within my sight each morning as I wake,
Starts memories, spirit songs, that nourish me all day.

I wonder if she will dress with blossoms this year.
They become sparse as the seasons progress.
Though all the sweeter for the effort I imagine she makes.

She’s just a tree, sure to be replaced,
but like an aged aunt from whom I took much courage,
the knobs of her arthritis touching snowy strands strayed from their pinnings,
Or clutching a frayed green shawl around her drooping shoulders,
this tree has made me glad, I will be saddened when she has to leave.

May 1998