The Walk

Theres a scent in the air it lingers there
It floats through the breeze and moves through the trees
Something sweet it cuts through the heat
September in the back hills

As I summit the hill a circle of red
Neath the crooked tree all twisted and bent
The apples laid there some sunk in the ground
The tree gave more than was needed

If it were all taken or baked into pies
my walk through the hills would miss this suprise
Not all trees should be planted not all prayers should be heard
But the scent can still be sweet

A thankful rove of birds and bees
A lumbering bear and some clumsy geese
Would find this place a delightful feast
As if it were meant for them

So raise your glass full of wine that was made from the fruit
Of forgotten prayers and the cries of our youth
We all knew what was needed we all new not the truth
The farmer was sleeping when the harvest was due
Forgive my anger for blaming you
The seeds that never were planted