Memories of an Orchard

We used to be sweet
We used to be neat
in rows carefully tended,
with boughs often mended.
It was our pleasure to yield
fruit by the ton in this field.
A few of us knotted remain
Singing a song with sad refrain
Producing an apple here and there
For only the birds that sing and share
our lonely existence of memories and pride
of the red sweetness that lingers deep inside.