Poetry1: The same wind

The same wind

I travel down the dust swept road
Calm, and anxious
And I feel like I’ve been here before
Gone down this old
Harmonious road
Apple picking
Handed that same ash-torn basket
Pressed against my darkened palm
With that same feeling
The peaceful contentment
That lay heavy against my heart
I walk into the darkened shed
Where I had stood
Some years ago
Waiting for my first lesson
On how to apple pick
I remember sitting on my dad’s shoulder
Waiting for him to stop
Under the shade of some huge tree
The same tree I’ve picked from, ever since
The branches bend down obediently
As I put my weight on one of the apples
I tug on the big, red fruit
And hold it in my hands
I wonder if it could be the same apple I had picked with my dad
Too bad we hadn’t taken pictures
I sit down on the old road
And take a bite of the apple
Why is it so quiet?
***
I take the apple and throw it into one of the big containers
That stand beside the tree
The core thumps against the bottom of the metal can
Alone
Now what?
***
I walk up the wooden steps
On to the platform
I can’t remember a time when I hadn’t stood on the platform
After a long day of apple picking,
What I’d give for my dad to be here
***
It still smells the same
That same misty, calm smell of October
Those same burnt gold trees decorate the outside of the field
***
Red and yellow Chrysanthemums circle the wooden platform
In fiery anger
They toss and turn
Raging at the world
***
It was just my imagination
***
The autumn wind whips my dark hair
In circles
I start to shiver
And hug myself tight against the powerful wind
***
I remember my dad’s jacket
And how he’d always let me wear it
When it got this cold
***
I’m pretty sure it’s the same wind
That blew years ago