The apple tree just off our balcony is blossoming.
I went outside to talk to her.
Standing next to the trunk and looking up into it’s black-skinned limbs,
Just putting out green tendrils and pink blossoms.
I heard it say, “Again? Haven’t I done this before?”
“Of course you have” I said. “And will do so again. It’s worth it, the apples.”
“They just all fall off,” she said.
“I eat them,” I promised.
She almost sneared, the pitiful few I manage to Harvest.
It was a brief exchange, but I kept an eye on her through the Spring and Summer,
To see if she might change her tune.
As the leaves unfolded,
The blossoms burst forth Into a glorious bouquet
Fourteen feet tall.
I went up to my balcony where her branches extend right to my face,
And I can caress her shoulders with tender thoughts–
The bumble bees industry in plain sight.
Her beauty as natural as the rising sun,
Or the turning earth,
Or the in-going, out-going breath of never-ending labor.
She was there,
Perfumed and lovely,
All laid out and wanton for the busy, servicing attentions of the flying attendants.
And I said, “how are you?”
“Can’t you see we’re working here?”
I’m having an affair with my apple tree.
I think she likes me.
Leaning forward to embrace me with her limbs, she doesn’t touch,
But I can feel her nuzzling her brow against me, like a huge pet.
I am a little embarrassed at this unexpected amour.