In my imagine
It is an apple tree
Under which you will
Come back to me
Your shoulders round like
Parcels bound with twine
I will feel them still
Light in my palm,
From uncertain wrist to callus on my tallest finger tip,
Fine grasping arms
And the same question
In the darks of your eyes
But by then
I will not be
So full of answers
© Brendan Bonsack
September 2014