Bonk

Sife has climbed to the top of the aged tree and apples hail down on us, bonk, bonk. My nephew Jack and niece Allegra are here this weekend, and we have plans for apple pie, apple cobbler, applesauce. We begin filling a red plastic tub with fruit. The higher the level of apples becomes, the more grandiose becomes 11-year-old Jack’s plans for the bounty. “We can take them to the city and sell the pies. We can sell the applesauce.” His mind is full of simple equations, simple conversions. Apples equal money; money becomes Pokemon cards.

The apple tree, ignored, abandoned, was

spared this year when the tree guy came to do some cutting and clearing. Cliff and I were undecided about what to do with it. Tree Guy said, “It’s kind of poetic.” Who can cut down a poem? The apple tree rewarded us amply. So I, in turn, must give it haiku:

Old man apple tree
Drops fruit with young abandon.
Gather warily.