Climbing into the arms
of an apple tree,
my favorite book in hand,
the fragrance of blossoms
pulsed on a breeze.
My hiding place
among a canopy of leaves,
the rain crow cooed
in the forest, predicting rain.
On summer days,
the apple tree offered
a cool shade,
a place for picnics,
savoring fried apple pies.
Great-Grandpa Dallas Matheson
planted an apple orchard
above the frost line
on Shewbird Mountian.
Great-Grandma Martha Matheson dried fruit:
the horse apple, hog sweet, red June,
striped June, striped May, pumpkin apple,
queen pippin, pound apple, black beauty.
Each spring the apple trees rejoiced
and washed the woods with
a blanket of snow.
--Brenda Kay Ledford
