Apples

 I dance to my mind on an old summer day;
sitting to ripe peeled apples by the sinking hands of my grandmother.
“My dear child” said she, “take of my fruit, an everlasting token.”
I did as she said and took her chopped fruit.
Bits and pieces of juicy-plump reds and greens consumed by my youthful lips.
I am aging but not yet old. I am young but still not bold.  
But you were my dear, bolder than coffee that sat at your breakfast table.
Your apples and songs, your laughter and prayers;
the pieces consumed will remain all days,
constantly digested and never gone.
I will breathe the air your lungs never could.
I will remain past the days of your glory.
I will survive by apples I consumed,
peeled by your sinking hands on that old summer day.