The apple tree
the bench beneath the apple tree
has collapsed like my
grandmother’s lungs
but the tree still gives fruit and she
still makes dinner folds
clothes
see when a tree dies it does
so slowly piece by piece until
the dead weight is too much it
starts
from the inside
my grandmother doesn’t smoke
three packs a day
anymore but her breath
sounds like the rustle of
dead leaves her cough
like branches snapping
a limb from the apple tree
has collapsed like my
grandfather’s legs
but the tree still gives fruit the
light in his barn is always on
he is auctioning off the last
of the cars he built buying
a handicap van he
sits down next to me on
the new bench
and as my grandmother
makes her way toward us
and the the limbs hang heavy
above us he smiles and says
I did good, kid. I did good.