Apples

For my dad.

Image result for apple trees

Apples

Once, when I was four or five or six,
I thought the apples
crimson and green,

hanging from their twisted branches,
were bells, silent, solemn,
weeping for lost songs.

Perched on my father’s shoulders,
I reached for the saddest, humming
twinkle, twinkle,

dad lifting me higher
and we made the apples happy.

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