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Apple-tree

  • Writer: Yongle Voynich
    Yongle Voynich
  • Aug 22, 2024
  • 1 min read

On the roof of my car

Lie apples,

Ripe to pick.

Plinking drops from hanging branch,

Tires brush the yellowed leaves.


The apple falls far from the tree:

Lies in my hands,

Ripe to eat;

Sweet, but still, I stare (not at it)

Beyond the window to empty street.


This apple comes home with me.

I chew sweet flesh,

And spit its seed:

My overgrown garden welcomes it.


So apple grows into a tree,

Far from other apple-trees;

Lonely as an apple can be.


I sit under its soothing canopy

And eat the hanging fruit.

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