Communion

On my grandfather’s farm there stood a tree
That bore four sorts of apples – green, red, red,
Yellow – round like hearts. It would amaze me
When I was a child visiting the old
Grandeur of those strong white-haired folks who grew
Trees and family with blessed abundance.

I’ve been back to see bright spring sunlight dance
In May blossoming white tinged pink anew;
To pick those apples as summer grew cold.
His ashes fertilize that crazy tree –
My Grandpa’s way of rising from the dead?
In each crisp bite he continued to be.

This is poetic immortality:
To live on in fruit from an apple tree.

Stephen DiLauro
New York, NY