Crushed Apples
The windfalls
have been trod and gnawed upon.
A sweet sludge of pith
is spread across a ripe carpet
of cider scented soil.
Here in late autumn,
an amber painted orchard
is the heady mulch of a waning sunlight.
The unburdened branches,
now are open spaces, tunnels,
for the tangy tongues of drinking winds.
Blight tinted apples dwindle
within mossy cups of time,
still deliciously edible
for the ever-hungry earth.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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