apple tree

i saw the ghost of the apple tree
wearing a purple dress on the side
of the road. she told me she was
getting married. aren't we all getting married?
i don't want to be a turtle anymore.
i would like to have long legs 
& a keyhole to peer through.
the apple tree used to spit her face
in the neighbors' yard. they never
picked all the fruit. instead, the animals came.
had feasts. i always wanted to join them
in my own purple dress. i don't own
the dress anymore. who knows 
where it ended up. i used to be softer. 
i wish i was softer. instead i am bound by
laws about who owns the land. property lines.
a wooden fence. animals have always been
the best anarchist teachers. climb the trees.
eat the berries. shit on the roof. care for
the weak. sleep in the guts of an old tree.
i ask the apple tree why she stopped 
bearing fruit. she tells me that it was
too lonely. to create is always lonely.
even the sharing, like little deaths
in the mouths of those you love.
i think it would be way too proud
for me to claim to be an apple tree like her.
maybe i am a knuckle tree or an eyelash tree.
something less sweet & vital. i admit 
to the apple tree that once one of 
her fruit rolled close enough
to the side of the road that i was able to
snatch it up. i ate it right away. juice on 
my hands. all apples are tethers. all poems
then too. the purple dress hanging on the mailbox.
naked, the tree runs off. i tell her i am always here
if she wants to be devoured again.