Stan Mitchell

Where Apples Grow

 

One morning not so long ago,

By chance, my dog and I did stray

Through a gate

Into a long forgotten place,

Where apples grow.

 

On that October morning’s breeze

My dog explored the new-found scents,

While I collected apples

From off the ground and from the trees

Where apples grow.

 

I think the orchard sensed us there

And gave its fruit so willingly.

And did it whisper through the trees

To come again, my dog and I,

To where the apples grow?