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
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