I am like an ancient apple tree
That knows innately April is nigh.
The sap still wants to rise,
But no white blossoms smile at passersby,
Enticing them to breathe our joy
And taste the promise of our love.
The sun still frowns, begrudging a ray or two.
So come back soon and with you bring the latter rain,
That the storehouse of every heart
May overflow with apples of gold.
Kenneth Wayne Hancock