The Apple Trees

When I was born my parents planted a tree
It came to be known as my tree.
They planted five in all
And each was named.
They have grown much since then
And as if to mimic life,
Some are big
Some are small
Some reach high
Some not so tall
But the roots in each are strong.
In summer they all bear fruit
And limbs grow heavy.
But branches long since merged
Have made them strong
Intertwined like vines on a wall.
In years past the fruit was always used
But these days it often spoils
Resigned to blanket a garden no longer played in.
The sights and sounds of autumn are familiar.
Birds busying themselves with plans for winter
Hopping from tree to tree comparing notes
All the while whistling a tune.
A final clearing of the garden
One more cut and raking of the lawn
Each tree a trimming of its branches
Seasonal changes bring seasonal chores.
Winter paints its own picture
The lonely months.
The trees are without life
There is no fruit
There are few birds to speak of
They are alone with themselves
With visitors very few
Save the crows that never leave.
Spring again the garden feels renewed
The trees begin to bloom with life returned
Shaking off Jack Frost and winter slumber
They stretch.
Another year has passed
The trees have grown
But I remember them when they were small.
Sometimes … I wish they still were.
© 2007, Tim (P) Prendeville

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