Remembering Fruit

source

We picked apples off

the trees of my childhood,

driving into the country

on Sunday afternoons

to see the springtime blossoms.

We chased each other

through the rows,

two small sisters

in Sunday dresses,

reaching up, with delight,

allowed to choose

one firm, fresh apple

from the tree.

Life was simpler then,

and kind.

Now condominiums sprout

where once the orchards bloomed.

One by one, 

the loved old houses 

disappear.

In the small house

where I raised

my four children,

the back yard was all garden.

In summer, the table groaned

with watermelon, cantelope and honeydew,

grapes, and plums and apricots,

strawberries, luscious red,

juice dripping down our chins.

The house and garden is gone now,

replaced by a monster house,

my children's ghostly laughter

still echoing down the years.

We picked apples off

the trees of my childhood.

Now condominiums sprout

where once the orchards

bloomed.

for Sanaa's prompt at Real Toads:  Of Poems and Fruit