Orange blossoms and apple seeds

Abstract

She likes the smell of apple treesLaid across autumn peaks,Dried out from a winter snow in February.A secret ministry performed unknown to menShe seeks hiddenBeneath the morning moan of murders.“You have a condition”,Mathematically muttered,In vowels and consonants familiar to her.A rhythm she has only known,Her heart gallopsTo beats of onesAnd threes,Not twos,A diagnosis known to himNot her.A mother tells of men and wolves,But mothers dare not tellOf a mother’s lament.A father builds castles of sands and clay,No sunlight too harsh nor wind or darkHe believes will steer her astray.A scruple spritz, he can not fathom, to six fathoms deep,that’s all it takesTo watch as she is taken away.A condition passed to children of children’sFrom years that have gone,Whispered and forgotten,Inscribed and transcribed like stories of folklore.She is to be remembered again,Dressed with new patterns and sequences that have no end.She will be resurrected a new in body and flesh.A golden tradition.Far from the crowd,She draped herself in her mother’s scarfEmbedded with secrets unknown.A tradition to escape,A tradition to uphold.She likes the smell of Apple treesPainted on the peaks,But she stands under orange blossomsSmelling for apples and their seeds.