/ Poetry /
We creep slowly outside
hands full of apples beyond
crispness - a venture for good
we see as salvation.
She chews on her tongue
as she watches our fruit
disappear into this long cold winter.
She doesn’t budge from the earth.
She rests in the woods
behind our home - belly
pressing down the world
and last fall’s leaves.
She seems to calmly sink into
what surrounds her - tough red
squirrels chasing the greys
crows slipping and hopping
on crusts of unfolded forest.
We turn inside and lock the door
against the smell of rotting fruit.