the host muted,
I grow bored on the call
and dream, that I bite
an apple great papaw grew
or might’ve, in an orchard
now unfindable
it’s crisp, with sweet tang
like fermented bread, and
my teeth pulp its flesh
until only a core remains
with coal black seeds,
even phantom apples hold seeds,
and I wonder, as they take root
whether the orchardist dreamed
one day his offspring,
his trees of fruit and family,
would still be together,
and I wonder, what would he feel
these hundred years later,
with trees toppled,
mountaintops removed,
orchards gone,
and I wonder, would he weep
at our demise,
or just plant new seeds