The tree stands fruitful.

And the apple bounces down

from ripeness to windfall and bruise.

And at the core of the fruit is the tree, 

and no matter how far the apple rolls,

it still celebrates its event.


The apple may veer.

It may convert to cider,

to jam. And bob for fun; 

and play roly-poly. But it’s still

in relation to: even when pressed.

Life’s cuckoo sap worms from pip to peel.


The sapling springs up, 

from shadow into summer. And may

be aided by flights of wind and bird,

to branch further than reach:

a fun field day striving beyond

the attraction of the fall and tumble.


Thy invisible roots

still bind to the pull cord

tugging from earth’s labour. A first calling

that bawls a crocus announcement

that echoes back and forth from a nestling

in the lost scrumping of childhood.

uckoo Sap