Golden apples, mouth size
morsels fall from the tree
into my father’s outstretched hand.

He mourns the pies my mother
will not make from this
unknown harvest.
The many apples she will not
peel in one long coiling strip.
The meaty fruit enters my
father’s mouth, untouched
by her deft blade,
unsweetened by her hand.

And as the frost lies
upon the apples golden
skin turning it first dull then
rusty brown, she lies beneath
the now cold ground fading
as the apples do.

And flocks of blackbirds
fill the sky, alighting
on branches bare of leaves
to peck and pluck the
fetid fruit that never touched her hand.