Ripe-Old Apple-Trees

I want to write a poem about ripe, old apple trees. And seated old poets in armchairs with arthritic knees, Carving words out into windblown dandelion seeds Circling trunks and boughs—where a snake precedes To hiss and talk in serpent tongues of ancient times I want to write a poem that reaches starry heights. About them, shadows stretch lower than a grass adder. That gives off a whiff of sourness, not glamour. Again, I want to write a poem about Adam and Eve. Adam rolled up his sleeves but couldn't please Eve. How Eve jealously guarded a secret How it tipped the world into self-relevance Such white blossoms, inked, flail into the sky. Like snake scales outgrown, all-too-often-left awry. I want to write a poem about ripe old apple trees. And poets in their armchairs, with arthritic knees, But sadly, I haven't had the time to do so, child. I'm becoming all too old and now sleep-beguiled.