To sit beneath the apple tree
Out front, at Boulevard and Street.
We planted it when years were young,
Then left it mostly on its own.
The branches bent, the blossoms fell,
The roots grew steady where they were.
The boards were rough, the paint went thin;
We brushed them green to let them in,
A mossy shade the woods might wear,
Not brighter than the shadows there.
The apple leaned the way trees do
That carry time and seasons through.
It dropped its petals as it pleased
And bowed its weight to wind with ease.
We built the bench to lean as well,
A thing not made to fight or tell.
It tilted, sagged, and seemed to know
The end is part of how things go.
When it came up against the root
It rocked there, awkward, yet it suited.
The roots had long since learned the trade
Of staying fast when boards decayed.
We sat and let the evening fall,
The light grow thin, the shadows tall.
The bench was green, the tree was high,
And what we’d left behind went by.
The house had lost its proper trim,
Its shutters swung, its porch was dim.
The weeds came on, the cracks grew wide,
And paint turned air, as all paint will.
It wasn’t much - some slanted wood -
But still it held what comfort could.
It seemed to know the simple art
Of bearing weight without complaint.
We spoke of land, of how it stays,
Not something owned, but lent for days.
It gives us root, it gives us ground,
And takes us back when time comes round.
That corner held its share of years -
The apple tree, the bench, our fears,
And all the comings, all the goings,
That made the place a place worth knowing.
Sit while you can. The green will pale.
The wood will split. The fastenings fail.
But roots are deep, and know to keep
The faith of earth while men still sleep.
The day runs off the way days will.
The bench grows quiet, the tree more still.
Yet something leans, and waits, and stays:
A root, a seat, a patch of days.
GBS
2024
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