Dear Aurora and Irene,
Whenever I read this beautiful poem I think of each of you, your Moms, GJ, and my own Mom now in heaven. I hope that as you get older, you too will also think of your own Moms, each of whom loves you very much like I do. Love always, Papa Bear
Young Apple Tree, December
A poem by by Gail Mazur
“What you want for it, you’d want for a child: that she take hold; that her roots find home in stony winter soil;
That she take seasons in stride, seasons that shape and reshape her; that like a dancer’s, her limbs grow pliant, graceful and surprising;
That she know, in her branching, to seek balance; that she know when to flower, when to wait for the returns; that she turn to a giving sun;
That she know fruit as it ripens; that what’s lost to her will be replaced; that early summer afternoons, a full blossoming tree, she cast lacy shadows;
That change not frighten her, rather that change meet her embrace; that remembering her small history, she find her place in an orchard; that she be her own orchard;
That she outlast you; that she prepare for the hungry world, the fallen world, and the looney world, something shapely, useful, new and delicious.”
