The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
buds of generational history
blooms repeat to be the same
pink, red, rosy, given names
Rotten roots lay undetected
Bloody branches disrespected
Refused a haven in the storm
Beaten, battered, broken, torn
Bearing into the furious wind
Dropping seeds, again. Again.
The seeds removed found fertile lands
Grew tall and strong with loving hands
When they bloomed, with rooted shows
They bloomed into a fragrant rose.
The cycle once born is now rejected
crisis averted, genes defected.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
But that does not apply to me.
Somehow there must be A same
But there is nothing in his name
The branches torn where childhood sits
are splintered, demolished. Daddy did it.
He hacked at the bushes with angry words
clashing, lashing, striking swords
No matter what gifts that rose bush gave
it was never enough, but it remained a slave
in hopes that someday, a small reward,
would champion out, three little words.
Mare Martell 