Who Will Pick the Apples Now

Feet wide and deep of breath
surveyed, with barreled chest
is the taste of spring, now a-buzz
on mornings breeze….

pink and white and blossoms free -
listening to the bees, which sing.

So succulent, the memories taste
when a smiled tree is born,
which bares the fruit
once naked were the limbs.

How fresh, is the harkened scent
returned upon… the morning air -
of an Old Orchard's Inn.

But tired is the bark…
of sweat stained backs
who've tilled the lush… between
basaltic ridges, in valley'd fertile land.

Now arid is the creak of porch and bones
as wild seeds of youth are sown
upon the harvest shadowed moons -
by the seeping dreams, which flow…..
down to gnarled concrete roots
just before the edge
- of a Halifax sea.

Rotten are the dreams
of old baskets, empty -
withered grey, without sound
new generations…
stoop, searching - yet unfound.

Who will pick the apples now
- left laying on the ground.