The apple tree
The old apple tree grew in my back yard
many years before I was born
it was alive with color and apples
The apple tree I knew did not bear fruit
it was old, rough, weathered, scraggly
the grooves in its bark displayed the years it had experienced
My dog, Conan, used the tree to scratch his back
Children once climbed on it
grabbing the fruit from its branches
I used it for target practice
BBs struck paper targets and embedded themselves into its trunk
tin cans were lined on thick limbs, shot off by a keen eye
When I was nine, my mother said the tree still had life in it
She cut the dead limbs, provided extra water
and tended to it every day
In the fall, the tree did not let us down
crispy, tart, juicy apples, slightly bigger than a golf ball
hung from the old tree’s branches
Was it a 20 ounce? Not big enough
too tart for a Cortland
it looked like an Empire, tasted like it, too
It didn’t matter
it was a genuine New York apple
that was enough for all of us