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In
spring,
my
pink
dreams
danced
in
a
carefree
breeze.
In
summer,
my
fertile
seed
produced
tender
children,
like
delicious
fruit.
Too
soon,
autumn
changed
my
colors.
Now,
winter's
forecast
predicts
brittle
limbs,
barren.
But
I,
like
the
apple
tree,
will
bud
again
--
in
another
time,
another
place.
Copyright
1994
Ruth
Gillis
Published
in
Poetic
Page
November
1994
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Gillis
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