We picked our apples green, before the frost
Dropped them, the week my daughter started school.
Spiked by stubble, bruised by stones, and lost,
What fell we left. We climbed the tree and tossed
The best from branch’s arms to bushel’s lap.
We picked our apples green, before the frost.
She said, just as I hooked her rungs across
A bough, she’ll bring her teacher apples; but not those,
Spiked by stubble, bruised by stones, and lost.
I hoped the teacher knew what grief it cost
To send her apples, nurtured with such care.
We picked our apples green, before the frost.
Did Eve, when Eden’s gate she, fated, crossed,
So chatter on, delight to be undone,
Spiked by stubble, bruised by stones, and lost?
Then I stood and waved in bus exhaust,
Unseen. I turned sour
We picked our apples green before the frost
Spiked by stubble, bruised by stones, and lost.
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