I took a bite of a childhood summer:
tart, firm, crisp, satisfying,
felt the juice of it dripping down my chin,
splashing on my shirt.
I saw two gnarled apple trees,
five smudged children,
and dozens of apples,
green golf balls hanging and grounded,
half-eaten handfuls of sticky freedom.
I heard don’t eat the apples,
don’t climb the trees,
watch out for those children:,
warnings I’m learning just now
not to heed too much,
juice I’m letting drip and run,
mouth and fingers I’m leaving that way for awhile.
