The Apple Tree

There is no place
No place for me
'Neath the guardian
Apple Tree

They all dance 'round
Those boughs of old
While I stand naked
In blustery cold

Each limb is laden
With Heaven's ripe fruit
While my limbs wither
So destitute

They pick frail posies
each bloom they grow
I'm dust and barren
No seeds to sow

Their merriment lingers
In joyous song
My chords stay silent
My harmonies wrong

as sun's warmth fades
They build night's fire
Oh, to lay my bones
On that bright pyre!

They huddle it's trunk
Drifting off to sleep
My soul's so parched
I cannot weep

There is no place
No place for me
'Neath the guardian
Apple Tree

©Breathe 1994