Crabapple Tree

At the time we were introduced, the animals

had long been dead, rotted to skeletons

buried beneath a wild bouquet -

Queen Anne’s lace and prickly thistles.

An open field had become a graveyard, buzzing

with a thousand crickets, and

swarming with a million gnats who

would dive-bomb any open eye.

‘Cept for the barn cats of course, they

thrived, answering only to your gnarled twang.

Elusive bedraggled critters skittering

away from all beings who weren't the

benevolent Grandfather, the provider

of ever multiplying cans of feed. Purchased

in town each week along with a daily lottery

ticket, much to your sour wife’s dismay.

A golden dog survived too, a wild Sounder.

He ran free but never far. He always

had to piss on every tire

rolling down the long lane

leading to the house;

Seemingly to make sure everyone knew

we were a part of his territory.

The house lived over a hundred years, even

had a name written in stone

where the carriages used to pull up.

Not our name but someone’s name,

a someone whose legacy we tried to carry on.

You had planted a crabapple tree when

you heard I was arriving, to mark

the continuation.

Inside the heat was stifling and the wallpaper

peeled back to unveil the last 5 layers -

Pattern under pattern over pattern. I used

to pick it off like thick tree bark.

Everything in the kitchen was greazy

to the touch, and your jacket hung

in the back room, full of holes

From the shrapnel that broke your heart

in the last great war.

The water drawn up in a tin bucket

from the back porch well was the sweetest

I've ever tasted. We would sip quietly,

watching deer roam lonesome fields

while the sun slipped away and stars

and fireflies light up a moment

we could never return to.