Her path is brown apples, soft mud and loam.
She looks nowhere else, steps daintily home.
Above, only one fruit remains,
A brutal burden on a branch that strains.
Overripe, decayed,
Skin split and leaking -
Putrescent -
Do you know of that which I’m speaking?
The soft brown curls whereupon I sit
Are lifted by a gust.
If there is a moment, this is it,
When swiftly to prayer I must.
Oh, sweet lady, pull me low -
Let me shade thine eyes!
There are things one should not know -
Don’t look toward the skies!
