Apple Tree

In spring, my pink dreams danced
in a carefree breeze.
In summer, my fertile seed
produced tender children,
like delicious fruit.
Too soon,
autumn changed my colors.
Now, winter's forecast predicts
brittle limbs,
barren.

But I,
like the apple tree,
will bud again --
in another time,
another place.

Copyright 1994 Ruth Gillis

Published in Poetic Page November 1994

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