Apple

Only one Cox's apple left
From the two hundred and fifty six
I took from the tree.
All wrapped in brown paper,
Placed in boxes in the attic
In October's russet eve.

Still green
Mottled red,
Uneven,
Reflecting early Summer's light.

Light streaks through my window
And slaps into the skin
Green skin
Hard and pitted.

A fruit from a withered tree
So roughly smooth
Cold
Perfectly formed
An orb of light.

Fresh meadows memories
Feet wet to the ankles
Wading through grass -
Basket heavily laden
With new, ripe fruit.

Meadow birds compete
With childrens' shrill voices
Their picnic blanket spread
Under Orchard's pregnant trees.

Crunch of teeth
Bursting forth the juicy,
Crisp flesh.
Slurping, sucking in
Gathering the flesh with your lips
Grinding the sweetness
Sour,  in your mouth.

Dull thud
Apple falls
Lands on grassy
Green Earth.

Hot Autumn days
Rotting flesh rolling
As you kick your way
Through time.

The upper side shiny
Virginal
Innocent
Carefully concealing
The deadly wasp.

Smell of fermenting flesh
Squelching underfoot
As you mourn the passing
Of another fruitless year.

Close the shutters
Lay down your apples
Conceal Spring's freshness
Within their skin.

Lie by the fireside
Eating apple pie,
Custard.
And wash it down
With gallons of cider
You kept cool in the cellar
From early last year.