The apples and the bees

When we first moved in,

an apple tree in front was in full bloom.

Bees, everyday. Around the branches,

around our golden, sweaty foreheads.

They hummed folk songs in the air

and then got close, closer.

Ducked under the leaves, nestled into the shade,

to get right up against the shining, bursting red fruits.

Later, deer in the driveway.

They jawed all the polka-dot apples

that had dropped and rolled away–

spotted with rotten splotches where bees

had burrowed in.

We bowled the extras down the hill.

This year–there was no fruit. No blossoms.

No landmarks, no red to count the season by.
I missed the bees, missed them hovering perpetually
right next to the tree, to the house, to me.

A deer stopped by the window

looking for his midday meal.

I ate some of a sour storebought apple,

and through the open side door, threw the rest to him.