The Apple Tree
by Jack Ritter

The trunk was like a three-fingered hand.
We each scurried up one bough.
"My tree is better."

We swung and smacked like gibbons.
We found limb crotches to sit in.
"My seat is better."

Our skin was laced with leafy shade.
Our eyes were filled with the sky.
We were slowing down.

Young apple honey and stamen dust
packed the air with scent.
We breathed in, and in.
Never out.

Buzzing cicadia riffs
stitched us deep into summer.
Slowing down more.

We got drunk on our thoughts,
on our fingers, hands and skin,
on eddies, leafy veins.

Husks of centuries drifted by -
and winked.
We became halted clocks.

Only the air moved.

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