Jean Watkins
Ribston Pippin
Once a swing hung from it and all the apples
jiggled when we swung, our feet just touching leaves.
Only bird feeders hang there now, with bluetits
so light they seem to float not fly.
Pink blossom buds poked through April snow
like nipples of some heroine’s dazzling breasts.
It’s the bees’ cathedral, humming organ notes, then
petals pool the grass, dry brown on the doormat.
Drunken wasps drowse in windfall cracks. Apples
scent the loft; their juice wakes up the tongue.
Page(s) 48
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