My child’s skin was the taste
of apples in the warmth of summer—
there’s a way of holding an apple,
cradling its preciousness like a baby
in your hands, the startling sweetness,
of flavor that lingers all day, stays
inside my throat. A child isn’t yours
when they are grown, yet the feeling
of being needed by someone so trusting
reminds me of the way I yearn for apples
in summer, fearing one day
my hands will be empty.