The Apple Tree Cut

a poem

that drinks the black earth,

tripped in its own shadow;

the sun eaten by fallen leaves

of Autumn`s fading; fingers

broken and fragile ; twigs

the polished leg of a dead gull

white centered with milk;

wonder the mess of branches;

flags of prayer torn.

The tree shouts : each cut

an hour less, seconds rubbed out;

the lost next waits in the wings.

Reviews

[William J. Marsh]

Reminds me of the cycle of lifes events. The things that were, the things that never will be. Very nice piece Leslie.

[Great Aunt Astri]

Yes, I like the 'lost next'! Keep writing

[MoriartyMesa]

Sends the mind to the 'early's' the days of Frontier forts and huntsman of the vast West. May one consider the muse was that of a longing?



Great work, but a few questions.