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 Halloween a fortnight hence,
I mow the grass beneath the leaves of my neighbor’s oak
trees
And of my apple tree that was old when we bought the house thirteen years ago.
Over the years, I have worried about that apple tree.
It carries the scars of branches rotted or broken off—
One containing cement that no longer extends from edge to edge,
Later scars left to heal naturally, according to the current fashion.
The tree is not a tree-house tree,
But a perfect tree for a swing and bird feeder,
With its powerful horizontal branch that parallels the house at just the right height.
A swing hung from that branch was an early home
improvement,
As was the bird feeder a bit farther out.
The swing was for my son, though I may have used it more
than he.
I surely mowed and raked around it more than he ever
did.
I am mowing the grass for the last time now,
As the “For Sale” sign will soon bring a new
owner here,
A new family to enjoy the apples in the fall
 And accept the never-ending task of raking the
neighbors’ oak leaves.
I will miss the yard and the tree and the birds,
Even though I seemed to spend more time raking and
mowing
Than ever I did looking or swinging or enjoying.
I will miss the apple tree
And forever lament that I did not enjoy it more.
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