Mom sighs as I take apples from her bough,
the burden of fruit's weight is lifted now,
to comfort from the reach of time she tried,
in this field, not just a letter,
or prayer, but something better,
to say she'd care for us after she died.

My father gave me strength to do this task.
His ladder lifts me up each time I ask.
I stand alone in field alive with hope,
apples thudding hit the ground,
feeling all of them around,
father to a son's granddaughter spoke.

Truth our parents both held in their hearts,
gathered here now in their scattered parts.
In boxes full of long sustaining giving,
through time I reach my hand,
to pick the product of the land,
and pass love from lovers past unto the living.

10/19/2011

Posted on 11/20/2011
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