Three rungs from the top
of a rickety four legged ladder
My entire body straining to grasp
those clustered King apples
Mostly green, with flecks of red
on their skin facing the sun

Reaching further than I ought
I put a little weight on an old branch
Knowing very well the risk
At such a height – with creaks – it holds
Makes me feel light and young
-Which I am and am not –

Two children holding sacks
Catch apples at the base of the tree
My father in law steadies the ladder
It’s his tree, and I’ve long enjoyed his fruit
Ever since permission was given
by “Her Mother and I”

Met by my daughter at the bottom rung
“Look at these apples – will we eat them all?”
“Yes, some now still warm with sun
and some matured – transfigured with new life
drunk deeply in glasses shared
by your mother and I