When it dies

I’m comparing our love to a tree
With no apples.
I mean, there were apples,
There are apples.


They lie
Strewn, half hidden
In black leaves, sweet
Even in forgotten rotting.

Flittering titmouse pecks
Incessantly at the furled
Flesh of one, while black
Beetles burrow another’s pulp.

One lone fruit hangs,
Stillborn along the end of twisted,
Grey branch, red against cold
Sky, as if to defy its destiny.

I imagine spring will simply
Bloom around its stubborn gnarl.
Life’s inexorable renewal
Leaves little room for regret.


About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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