Apple Trees

Apples blush, then brown
where birds stabbed
for worms. My trees
tempt no one, aged,
gnarled, wounded trunks
scarred by wind, bowed
by weight of fruit
we do not eat,
leaves speckled yellow
spots along gray
crooked veins, scabby
crazed harbingers
of long dark winters
until spring sprouts
all those white pink
blooms of hope.

  Richard Dinges, Jr.