a child beneath the branches of an apple tree
that's gnarled and well-past apple bearing.
it's early summer and the grass and tree are green
except that there are blossoms still, and so, belated
white. your hair is yellow. and you wear
a short dark dress that could be blue, with lace
and ankle socks, and matching ribbons that pull
your hair back from your face. the wispy strands
get in your eyes, though, and you're squinting.
you have one arm around the tree, as if to hug it.
you were four then.

or -- when you're bigger, maybe six or seven,
I see you in a house, sitting by a table.
the wall and rug are orange and your legs,
stuck out in front of you for close inspection,
are red-splotched. your mother dabs white liquid
on them while you grimace, and she's crooning.
a bowl of berries, red and wet from rinsing.
sits upon the table. you have one in your hand.
I watch you eat it.

or -- when you are thirteen and your hair falls
to your waist, I see you standing just beside
a doorway that opens to the funeral home. it is light
behind you, dark before. and your body, rigid,
leans a little backward to the light.
the sunlight makes the gold strands of your hair
glint to silver. I cannot see your face
although I am inside, in the parlor, where your mother
lies, white as the apple blossoms on the tree.
but long past bearing.

most often when I think of you, you're little --