Apple Tree Poem by Howard Johnson

Standing where
The grass and the
Cement meet
In what could be called
A walking path
Looking towards
An old apple orchard
Its blossoms tenderly in bloom
Filled with pinks, white and red

Her gypsy blood stirs
She is a vagabond
By her own name
So much sweetness to be drunk
From the small pedals
Pink, White and Red,
Swaying through the sunny hours
Meeting her own needs.
By dunking in her little head.

I remember one spring
The cool wind
Lifting my hair.
I felt a Butterfly
On my cheek
She left a kiss
It tickled with such gentleness
How I loved her kiss
Every spring
I hold that moment
Close to me,
I love her
That gentle little butterfly.