beneath the dappled beams of sun
that fall between the leaves of that old apple tree,
from which you picked forbidden fruit when young –
and kisses too, for love is bold
where lovers think that they must slip out silently –
you stand now a sturdy man for me to see
your frame fleshed out by lovers hands,
and tempered by the scars of grief, when rage stole more
than your belief, tho’ that too was undone;
the apples on that tree, still grow so sweet beneath the sun
no rage could sour that love that carries on.
and though you haven’t climbed the tree,
in all the years since he was gone –
those broughs are made more sturdy,
by those same years – soft blossom on the tips of those old boughs,
still bloom like tears;
and heralds fruit plucked by those with faith,
to reach for love made sweeter by the wait.