Apple Tree

On the branch of an old shady oak I sit; Swinging my legs with nothing but air beneath my feet; Content am I. Watching the birds fly; I sigh. A stolen Apple from the tree next door; A bite I take and out it comes; The sweetness long since gone. I rear back and let it fly. One soiled in the grove; But oh, How It shined. Decayed inside working it's way out. But Alas the seed remains to be trampled into the soil; Only to sprout when no ones watching, As quietly it grows. Now and then I recall, The day I threw decay away, As I sit under the shade of my own Apple tree And spy a small figure stealing an Apple from me. By Christy Teas