Grief
It begins with the apples, first light then heavy, budding greens slowly becoming hardened reds.
It begins with the apples, first light then heavy—
budding greens slowly becoming hardened reds.
Drooping the busy branches of many autumn trees
who have yellowed and oranged their way towards asleep.
You can almost see her reflection—bright eyes staring back at you—
scarlet blush covering cheeks. You wonder
how much longer you’ll be able to remember
her face.
These star-studded fruits of labour—artistic outpouring—
for the plants who, otherwise, sit silently in solitude.
There is an urge to grab one—to grope the velvety skin of mundane produce,
despite the innumerable rubies already at yr feet.
This Sea of Red on top of a freshly minted lawn—
careful not to step on them, she got upset when
you stepped on them, watching them become
as brown as their motherly branches, parting like Moses.
The heaviness is theirs for a reason, as though gravity—
was invented for these fruits alone. & That one word
racing thru the mind as you inch closer & closer
towards picking one, ripping off a gentle stem.
You wonder to yrself why you are not instead—
inside a thick field of white chrysanthemums
Or perhaps encircled by dim candlelight dressed in black,
broken columns & weeping angels.
More time has passed than you have realized—
it began with the apple blossoms months ago.
& Now, no flowers are here, yr two seasons too late,
these blossoms have decided
to become something else.
