Fallen Fruit Poem by Bob Bowers

In a fair, still spot
Beneath our apple orchard tree,
For it was but one,
The rest long gone to yards
and houses
And the play of children
wearing bare the ground,

We gathered,
Made our own orchard,
Limbs askew
Reaching out
The fingers of our branches
Entangling
Drawing away

Pulled by the soft breeze
of our voices
Rustling our lips
Cooling the sunhot clashing of our thoughts.

Nests of grey
Appeared
Here and there,
Built quietly over the years
On one or two of us,
The air filled with the soothing
Chirrup of robins and cardinals.

We turned,
Each of us,
in our own way,
Toward the one for whom
we had gathered there,
Like a lush red apple
first noticed,
Fallen from our orchard tree,
Full of the sweetness of a perfect fall day,
Full of hope and the taste to come
In that first bite, washed and shined,
Or baked with sugar,
sweeter still
In a pie like Grandma used to make.

That day passed,
and others,
Crisped into frosted dusk.
Leaves fell from our tree.
And I,
I raked up what I could of those leaves
and fallen fruit.


5/4/2002