543 Readings | 3 Ratings

One Fallen Apple

It was the day of falling apples.
The tree was heavy with fruit,
branches taut under the pull of
languorous weight. The morning
breathed thick tongued, dull
eyed, waking from a dream.
There came a sudden wind
that grabbed the tawny limbs,
slender as the blue veined wrists
of young maidens, and shook.
Down plopped apples,




a        staccato        fusillade,
hoofbeats of mare and stallion.
The man flinched at the first
fat raindrop. He had been
considering the apples, firm,
pale with a faint pink blush,
breasts, one in each hand,
weighing them in his mind.
He cleaved one apple, stem
to stern, to reveal its
five chambered heart, with
five seeds like hard brown tears,
one each for the four winds
and one for the lover who had
blown him away.
Posted 10/23/09
Comments (1)
This poem is your masterpiece as well as "Impressionism"!
10/30/09 5:21am