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there used to be this apple tree,
it grew somewhere in the midst
of my grandparents' sprawling property,
the only tree that spoke sweet,
small spotted words. my grandfather
would lift me and i would stretch
my hand through the leaves,
up up up through tickling leaves,
and we would eat the apples there
in the hazy heat where motes
drifted by like the day-glow ghosts
of fireflies.
sometimes i feel like i am still
reaching through the leaves,
reaching to grasp onto something
saccharine.
my grandparents don't own that tree
anymore, they left it behind.
all of the apples thunk hollowly
to the grass,
to grow old and move downwards
through the earth,
the way people tend to do.