I still scramble your crabapple tree
in dreams. Run up to pat the nanny goat
beneath who grazes lazily beside the fruit
the wind shook free.
Your chambers have not shrunk
to adult size. I run the winding stairs
to witness sunrise light the vicarage
whose glimmering chestnut blanket waits
the fateful snow, the mulsh it will become
like memories once fleshy as my thumb
then stripped to bone-dry ground
come harvest time.
Image: CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of Annie Spratt, Stocksnap.io