The apple tree is blooming in mid-September ―
a single unexpected brave blossom at the far end of summer
amidst the yellowing leaves, ripe apples scattered under the tree.
"It is going to be a harsh winter," the elders say these days and worry,
make every house stock up on food ― seasoned produce, fresh fruit, wine.
Corn, hay, dry wood. Then unwittingly shake their wise frosted heads
for the snow to begin falling. Soon, perhaps. Quietly, as if
from an ancient chant of promised love, long[ed]-
lasting hope, perseverance.
a single unexpected brave blossom at the far end of summer
amidst the yellowing leaves, ripe apples scattered under the tree.
"It is going to be a harsh winter," the elders say these days and worry,
make every house stock up on food ― seasoned produce, fresh fruit, wine.
Corn, hay, dry wood. Then unwittingly shake their wise frosted heads
for the snow to begin falling. Soon, perhaps. Quietly, as if
from an ancient chant of promised love, long[ed]-
lasting hope, perseverance.
A wonder: the image, and the poem. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteGratitude to you, Flame.
ReplyDeletegrace!!! a blessing...
ReplyDeleteBlessings to you, dear Roxana! Thank you.
ReplyDelete