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. The Reflective Eclectic is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Invite your friends and earn rewardsIf you enjoy The Reflective Eclectic, share it with your friends and earn rewards when they subscribe.
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Monday, 16 September 2024
We picked our apples green before the frost
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