Pantoum for an Apple Tree

 A sophic sentinel, our aged apple tree, witnessed much 
 We three sibs played under her winglike boughs 
Mother gathered apples underneath her then
Her flowering crown dropped blankets of rose tinged snow

 We three sibs played under her winglike boughs
 Mother made pies from her flawed but savory fruit 
 Her flowering crown dropped blankets of rose tinged snow
 The tree's limbs grew weaker; she succumbed in a storm

 Mother made pies from her flawed but savory fruit
 She makes pies no longer 
 The tree's limbs grew weaker; she succumbed in a storm
 Mother sat with only one sib, pondering what once had been


 She makes pies no longer 
 The days are long and empty now
 Mother sat with only one sib, pondering what once had been
I miss my shining days, phantoms now, she said 

The days are long and empty now
Mother gathered apples then
I miss my shining days, phantoms now, she said 
A sophic sentinel, our aged apple tree, witnessed much