Fall (2016)
There were
no apples.
Last year, the flies were boozy
with the glut;
but in this season, the flies made do
with dust, woozing only
about silled windowpanes.
Mounding the apples
was more fun,
though we should not have picked
so many–when they oozed, we tossed
some back, as if in recompense, as if to defend
the orchard against all dearth,
as if apples could help
with such things.
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Poem for Magali’s prompt on Real Toads to write of fruit stillborn (or other things) in the face of climate change. For April. (Not sure if I’m doing a poem a day, but will see.) Pic is not exactly apple pic, but a recent one of mine–all rights reserved.
I’m sorry to be late reciprocating visits; will get there!
ManicDDaily 
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