Revisionist Poetry – The Apple Tree, v.2

Schooltime in early autumn—
the playground full, but the out-of-bounds field calls.
Bristling with burrs, it calls; still, the apple tree wins.

We race to be kings in the age-old tree,
claiming the highest, trembling boughs.
Power is counted in an arsenal of apples—
ripe in look, not in bite.

Ogres and crones pace the margins; some flee.
The boldest stay: they cannot give up the game.
Only the siren—whistle, bell, mother—can call the kings down,
but even that cannot steal the apple-tree joy.