Apple Tree
 
Each year another
limb fails to sprout
leaves.  Others turn
green with leaves,
white with blossoms,
later red with apples.
I pick each one
and take a bite,
my only source
of knowledge.
We age slowly,
my tree and I,
each year less fruit,
more bites I pretend
make me wiser.

Richard Dinges


If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Richard Dinges  would be pleased to hear them.