Looking out my sisterís back door.
I see now the well-pruned crabapple tree
Planted oh God it must have been
Years ago by my grandmother
When this house was that womanís orchard.
I am a child sitting in that tree
A perfect limb curled out around
Holding me like summer mother
My own arm reaching out to pull
Bend and snap
One more of those fist filling
Knotty apples to
Knaw and chew around holes
Nimble questionable spots
And suck the sour;
And possibly worse.
Hidden oh so hidden in that
Green veil of leaves.