THE OLD APPLE TREE AND ME

.

I wake one morning to discover

outside my window

a striking pink crown of apple blossoms

amidst the pale green new leaves of maple and walnut.

Goldfinches fly in and out among the branches

to find their spot at the feeder,

A colorful bird chorus—chickadees, cardinals, robins—sing out

My body comes alive to the beauty of spring.

My heart beats with surging vitality.

My mind flows as vague visions, vibrant voices,

become vivid vistas.

Later, seen from my patio at ground level

the apple tree’s boughs are barely leafing,

buds unopened, colors drab.

You’re old, I think.

unpruned for years,

loved for your beauty in spring

then ignored. 

No longer bearing fruit.

By mid-July your leaves will fall.

you will appear to be dying.

How many more springs will you

waken me back to life with your pink beauty                         

when the cold of winter ends?

                       

I, too, am old.                                                                                                

I, too, reawaken in spring                               

with renewed vitality driven by                            

sometimes vaporous dreams                         

that call me to follow the quiet voices that

color the path ahead and lead me

where I have not gone before.

How many more springs, summers, falls

will I live to experience this amazing life

before the final winter covers me

in its blanket of snow?