Crabbed Apple Crone

Crabbed Apple Crone

Eh, that Mother Maple ‘cross the vale,
preening her scarlets as if
she were some goddess of the forest.
I saw her mother sprout.

Now, me? I am life sustaining apple,
(of the crabby sort to be sure)
but I have earned the right
through frost, endless cold and tenacity.

My roots be gnarled and my toes clenched
in arthritic knots, my boughs twisted with age
and infirmity. Twigged fingers scratch scudding sky,
bending beneath dew-damp fruit.
Knotted blemishes, windbent creases score,
but my eyes be ever sharp and I see far.

I cling to this outcropping of rock,
toed roots scramble for purchase.
My other half? Left midst summer storm.
Illuminating moment. Gone in a flash.

Fruit of my boughs, oft pecked or buck gnawed,
Snatched, ripped, torn from me; carried far.
I leaf their leaving, they may still find root.
Juices settle, sink to nourish roots or sot a squirrel.