Barbara Peckham | + Follow Poet |
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My Apple Tree

They’re cutting down my apple tree.
Well, I say it was mine, even
Though it was in a neighbor’s field.
She never minded that we climbed
In it, and we often did,
Being such tomboys as we were!
The branches were just low enough
For a ten-year old to jump up
And grasp, to shinny up the trunk.

We didn’t have a swing set or
A fancy playground nearby –
After all, we lived in the country -
So we played in the hayloft and
Wandered the woods and fields
And clambered around in our
Apple tree jungle gym!
We swung hand over hand from
One branch to another.
We hung by our knees
From the lowest limb and
Then, bravely, from just our heels,
Where we could drop to the ground
On our hands and knees
And think we had accomplished
A dangerous acrobatic feat!
One day a limb broke, and
I fell flat on my stomach,
Knocking the wind out of me!
I was sure I’d never breathe again!
But I lived to climb another day,
Not even daunted by the scare!

And then there were the apples!
Mostly windfalls, with some bruises
And the occasional worm!
We gathered them in baskets
And helped cut up the apples,
Cook them soft - reveling in
The smell and taste of summer -
And can glass jars of applesauce
For winter. If we were lucky, 
(And we usually were!)
There would be some of the warm,
Pink, cinnamony sauce left that
We could scrape right out of the kettle.

Now the tree is gnarled and brittle.
Some of the branches bare of leaves,
The apples small and wormy,
So they’re cutting my old friend down.
I take home a bag full of apple chips
To toss in the fire on a winter evening,
To close my eyes and smell the sweet
Applewood smoke rising and reminisce!

Copyright © Barbara Peckham | Year Posted 2021

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