Green Apples
Green Apples
Lovely…
not yet ripe,
sweet fruit from grandma’s…
most favorite tree.
She planted it…
just for me.
When I was born,
my mama died.
It was a hard time…
for papa.
He could not understand…
how one angel,
must be traded,
for another.
Always I saw it in his eyes,
the “less than” look.
I am so sorry…
my mama’s gone.
Yet…
she told me a secret…
It was passed in beats,
of joyful hearts,
both new and old,
fast and slow,
happy and sad,
even sweet…
and glad.
Grandpa,
never listened.
So I loved him anyway,
from that first day,
until the last.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
