My own children have sent me here to die
Though they are too polite to say
In my bed by the window
Like a moth in a little glass jar
I can see
The faithful apple tree
Frail and bent
She is as old as me
Each spring from the grave
In a bouquet of blushing school girl beauty
Showing off her petaled petticoats to all the passersby
(she is not shy)
Baring her blossomed bosom to the nectar loving Bees and to
the courtly Chickadees
who tip their black caps
in swoony admiration of 'Our Fair Lady'
She is the biggest flirt in the garden!
But spring will pass (it always does)
Flowers will fall like confetti
Before long, she'll be back on duty
She'll don that ancient apron of matronly green, and faithfully bear fruit in season
But oh! to be young again
“Fetch my pink nail polish!” I did say
“Mother? You're not well,” they tried to sway
But I insisted, that they listen
As they used to do
Ten painted toes
Like ten pink petals
Peek out from the bottom of my blanket
Waving at me—like a Banner—saying,
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