Apples of Gold–Missing the Wife of My Youth

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

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Filed under husbands and wives, love, marriage, poetry

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