Saturday, May 21, 2011

Motherhood

 
The apple tree told me
It was none of my business
Where the baby apples lay.
I looked anyway.
Tucked among the green
Sun-dipped, mottled and long
Leaves, whispering
As leaves do, hung
Thumb-sized apples
Of identical hue.

By August, the apple tree
Will bow, pregnant and ready
To be rid of them.
Bees will suck juice
From the ones she’s thrown away,
The hot air heady,
Sweet in mid-day.
I will make some use
Of the fat, red fruit.
And the apple tree will say,
Thank you.

Copyright by author
May 21, 2011

3 comments:

  1. You're good!
    Thanks for sharing your poetry.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I love your words, MK. Poetry is so therapeutic, so full of emotion. I can tell you cherish the call to motherhood.

    ReplyDelete

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