apple tree

climbing up
(up, up, up, up, up)
and I could touch the sky,
rough branches beneath
me,
and I would settle into one familiar
place after another,
and the flowers gave way to
little green apples
and the leaves rustled in the
sky that I could touch,
and the leaves became the
world all around
and all year round,
under
winter's sky or soft summer leaves;
hanging by my knees,
stretching out on a limb,
hopping down, sneakers into mud,
it was a good place to
be.