Old Apple Tree

Last year, I was looking at writing programs that could be implemented in our upper grades. I played around with an online resource and investigated it’s poetry section. I can honestly say, I don’t write often. Not because I don’t want to, but because I feel like I need an inspiration, time, silence, and confidence as a writer. For some reason, on that day, I challenged myself to act as a student and dig for some creative juices. In a matter of 10 minutes, I’d written my poem. I still tear up when I read it.

lake

I sit on the edge, moving my toes in the sand.

Making that figure eight below the hot layer until it’s cool.

Listening to the ripples of water as they drift upon the shore.

The squawk of a gull, dropping down from above to skim the surface.

The radio sits in the screened window, I hear songs from the past, local news and sailing updates.

The cottage smells of the past too. Sandy feet, hair in a ponytail, reading a good book.

I look out to where the apple tree once was, where I’d collect shells, build castles, play catch.

Long walks, adventures in the creek, catching minnows in buckets.

The bonfire from the night before awaits nightfall once again.

The fallen tree, washed up trunk acts as our stadium for another night of watching,

in silence, the crackling and popping of the fire.

It’s mesmerizing.

My childhood, my family, my constant.

The cottage was a place where I could call home.

It holds all of my memories.

I miss that old apple tree.


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