Categories > Original > Poetry0 Reviews
"Squatting against the ground, Your arthritis ridden branches try without luck to touch the sky." This is where personification has come to die...
Squatting against the ground,
Your arthritis ridden branches
try without luck to touch the sky.
Dead branches kneel at Your feet,
lichen creeps across Your trunk,
the picture of function over form.
The spring comes;
fresh green leaves cover Your branches
like a homely woman dressed in finery.
Delicate flowers adorn your arms;
from afar they look like fine tattoos.
This is the promise of more to come.
In the summer's heat
Nothing protects the delicate product
Born from your living jewels.
Yet you thrive.
Standing tall among the knee high
Queen Anne's lace spread about you.
The packages for your precious seeds grows fat
Your branches sag under the weight
like a mother's arms after a night
of rocking her baby to sleep.
Fall is here;
pears have developed,
And you bare your pink checked
But the crisp flesh betrays
Your affair with the Apple Tree...