An apple left to grow too long
clinging to the strongest limb
has seen bushels of his brothers gone
picked by a group of men.
Others of his kin now rest
with leaves beneath the tree
gone soft and brown and rotten
tempting mostly furious bees.
November frost has left its dust
on our tenacious apples cheek
December snow and rains we trust
leave apple sealed in ice and weak.
Perhaps it dreams of applesauce and pies
of cobblers and crisps
perhaps it listens to the lies
of crows and will-o-wisps.
This harvest missed our apples kiss
the cider that less sweet
our family gathering is such bliss
Thanksgiving remains a treat.
As for that trees lone apple
all weathered dry and worn
perhaps his direst battle
is to witness blossoms born.
Apple, don’t listen to the will-o-wisps
but heed the advice of crows
one will lead you far away
the other will take you home.
Judith A. Sears
©11/17/2018
5,839 Prime Words 