Just a memory of sitting under the apple tree in my backyard when I was a boy.

Woods

knee-high brown meadow grass with coronal distortions in the vertiginous brilliant midday sun - 

glowing, oozing nectar-like

I am certain that if I walk through the meadow to the woods the viscous penumbral glow will rub off onto my legs, a splendid solar stain to carry under the dark tree and brush-thatched canopy, down the barely visible stairs and past the cistern our small hands started to unearth,
the signifier of organized life slipping past memory into the black, vegetal soil
perhaps refusing to decay into oblivion
perhaps wishing it could dissolve into rest...
but I do not even know if I will leave the shadow of the apple tree
and the opioid effects of the languid July afternoon
leave me perched deliciously on the cusp of indecision