Retrospective
Sandy Lyne
Apple Tree
It was the perfect climb
when I was ten— quick step
above the orchard grass,
itself a ladder growing
left and right, sure route
to where the blossoms float,
Through apple scents all
clothed in white, I reached soft
whispers of my heart, and rose
until the branches stopped,
and the sky stepped in, and space
in other orchards breathed,
“Come up.”
© The Estate of Sandford Lyne
