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