This old apple tree

As early as I can remember the apple tree has been there for me, a place to smoke unfiltered camels and eat green apples with the obvious retribution, a place to hang out in, swinging from limb to limb, Tarzan wannabe way before Jane entered the picture, then on a  grassy knoll carving a name of someone I thought I’d know for ever, and lastly a tree outside my window, a few years back in a world I left behind, waiting to blossom under the canopy at dVerse

This old apple tree

is a holiday inn for birds.

A bastion of bugs that are room service

for anything that flies, crawls and festers.

I imagine me as a tree

with hot apple pie & ice cream

on the menu.

My blossoms, particularly beautiful,

a canopy for an apple crumb and coffee

on the deck, followed too soon

by the smell of rotting apples underfoot,

then naked, baring but an apple or two

hanging on like loose skin

flapping in winters’ long, cold, breath.

I imagine being reincarnate

offering a feast of fruit

in every lifetime.

I’m to look at it all,

the crusting apple tree

budding outside my window,

without imparting my perception

for then it becomes

all that I am.

11 comments on “This old apple tree

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