Jill Stockinger
The Story Made New
Plumes of petals
like white feathers—
I swear the apple tree
will burst into song
and take wing.
High in its boughs
hide the sweetest apples.
I’ll pick one for you,
plump and red
as your lips.
Climb with me
among the leaves;
none will see we share
late summer’s bliss
with our first kiss.