Friday, January 7, 2011

Apple picking

Our faces are rosy apples,
cold blooming blush on our cheeks
as we crunch our way to the lower branches.
They hang heavy, bowed,
leaning their fruit our way.
Your feet sink into wormy windfalls,
and we make gurning faces
at the slime.
I pick one off the tree and bite,
crisp skin bursting
and tart, too-early flesh tingling my tongue.
You lean and take a bite,
mouth smiling at the sourness,
and we look up at the chiller cabinet sky.
Your eyes are saucers and
my face feels numb
as we fill paper bags with our finds.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket
and we are hurtled back to real-time,
to the real world,
shattering our illusion of centuries past.
I felt like we were in a Christina Rosetti poem;
you said Anne of Green Gables.
You ignore your phone and take my hand,
the other swinging apples in our bag.
We pad our way home,
talking of crumbles and maybe jam.

This poem was originally posted on

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