Standing where <br />The grass and the <br />Cement meet <br />In what could be called <br />A walking path <br />Looking towards <br />An old apple orchard <br />Its blossoms tenderly in bloom <br />Filled with pinks, white and red <br /> <br />Her gypsy blood stirs <br />She is a vagabond <br />By her own name <br />So much sweetness to be drunk <br />From the small pedals <br />Pink, White and Red, <br />Swaying through the sunny hours <br />Meeting her own needs. <br />By dunking in her little head. <br /> <br />I remember one spring <br />The cool wind <br />Lifting my hair. <br />I felt a Butterfly <br />On my cheek <br />She left a kiss <br />It tickled with such gentleness <br />How I loved her kiss <br />Every spring <br />I hold that moment <br />Close to me, <br />I love her <br />That gentle little butterfly.<br /><br />Howard Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/apple-tree-4/
