Apples Baking

I remember yard as big as he was,
and running through the leaves of grass
with legs too short,

in never ending flows of family
frantic with a celebration,

like racing through my current soul
of never ending meadow
in search of spotting peak in progress,
as mountain wet,
and yet to climb.


Last year,
I returned
like geese migrating space
in capsule
of feathered tomb,

to childhood bliss from an eastern trip
that wove in splinters
of memory kept inside my fable,

to find a yard
too small to measure.


Five hundred shifting songs of season
can blow a mind to muted remembrance
in wilted shadow
of light year blowing tree to topple,
forgetting
where the apples play.


I am amazed
just how my love began in waves
atop a nest of fantasy in flower,

and how it grew inside my keeping
to pinker blossom of soft hyperbole
seeking wings to find in feather;

and not to say it didn't happen,

for youth did make its mark with knife
in cloven branch to climb forever
with something borrowed
from his legacy,

without a word to trace
these branches back
to distant summers of smell and tasting.


What you see is what you get,

nostalgia drapes a darker nightgown,
turning arms of time
in see through comfort
of recollection shifting in dropping sand,
as mounds of myth
in silver tresses salivating vision,

with fonder smile from abstract pies
on autumn days of apples baking.