“Two Trees”

by John Thomas Kelly

There are two apple trees in our backyard,
planted when our second son was born.
They grow unpruned, ungrafted, rough-barked and wild.
One gives us apples. The other gives us none.

Our oldest son has always sized things up.
He doesn’t climb the trees; he measures them.
His brother wears a cast and has a scar
from falling hard out of the barren tree.

This morning, we heard a yell and all rushed out.
The younger boy was climbing the other tree.
We watched and trembled with each branch he touched.
High up and quivering, he plucked the fruit.

He climbed back down and didn’t fall. He smiled.
His mother took the apple inside and washed it.
She cut it into pieces and passed it around.
And then we ate the apple, death and all.