Sunday, September 18, 2011

My Silver Dappled Apple Tree

By Molly Blaisdell

Out my back door,
across the yard,
My favorite tree stands tall.
Her leaves dance with silver light.
I skip in swirling shadows.
She lobs clouds across the sky.
I pitch a ball toward the sun.
Her branches shimmy in the breeze
My arms twirl and whirl beneath.
I stretch out by her trunk.
She murmurs splendid secrets.
I close my eyes and listen.
She is a good friend to me,
my silver

Seed to Tree

When a tree is a seed
it’s hard to see.

When a tree is young,
The wind blows,
and the tree bends
but does not break.

The tree grows.
It is easy to see.
It does not bend.
It will not break.