MacIntosh

MacIntosh

It’s an old tree, standing in my yard –
not ancient like the Sequoias, or
statuesque like the Redwoods, just

a squat little apple tree being the best
tree it can. I can imagine it wiggling its
roots in the rich soil, like the child playing

In the sandbox under its shady umbrella,
Deer come to graze on the bounty of
late summer and Robins build delicate,

twiggy nests in its branches, and I’m sure
I can hear it humming lullabies in the night.

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