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Apricot Trees

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Apricot Trees
David J Walker

My mother randomly spoke of the beauty 
She saw in trees that lined
The streets in town 

The boughs and branches placed
 in parks and esplanades on Arbor days in the 
all but forgotten past now hidden in the ether
Of dementia that was literally riddling her mind

But If I listened carefully
There was a story connected in 
Every 3rd or 4th word  about her
Childhood on a prairie farm 
with a large garden and
Fowl of every kind 

Where her mother
Planted apricot trees in line
by the dirt road leading to their 
Front door
and plans to make jam
that fall 

I stood by the bed as
mother lay dying 
Reaching with her right hand
I imagined her as a 
Young girl picking apricots 
Near the farmhouse 
Taking her time 
Going down the line
tree to tree 
Carefully placing the ripened fruit
in her apron pockets 

I imagined her smiling again 
in a youthful glow 
That I had never seen before
The day she had to go and 
Help make jam

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Jenna Logan

Date: 1/26/2021 2:51:00 AM

The memory held of her as a young girl picking apricots is sad but beautiful, David. This poem is melancholic and loving.

David Walker
Date: 1/26/2021 4:30:00 AM

Thank you, Jenna. It is melancholy to say goodbye for the last time. But it is a happy thought to envision my mother as a young girl, happy and carefree.