Apples
How tall
an aging creature like me
may keep ascending?
Asked the fine
Apple tree.
Anxious I am here,
Whining,
Atop the barest
coldest mountain.
Where the sun rarest
and just a glimpse of
his distant rays.
As I grow,
Seeking illusive warmth
I shall die without!
Scattering seeds
to bloom and witness failures.
I am an old apple tree
and the autumns
calling me.
Ripened thousands
healthy fruits of mine,
This parting season.
Alas!
They shall decay,
Every ample season.
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| oldmedina | 
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