My Love, the apples are almost ripe now, and you and I can reach again
pulling down the choicest ones, as I watch your face – framed
by the leaves, softly moving in the wind.
With the smell of the trees filling us, I move closer
seeing you turn to me, your smile
as my lips gently land
on your cheek.
As you whisper to me, “Sweetheart…..”
Writing and Image © Copyright 2016, Ancient Skies