independent living

Independent Living

I hurry to the gate and plead
with apples falling from the tree
grass bound and brown, but sweet inside,
a vinegar tinge, too soft to eat.
I show my stance of steady watch
before a wind of paper cuts
I see horizons of design,
I watch for eyes widened with need.
There is a lake that rests nearby.
Already, boaters speed across.
I see the the ski dissolving turns,
a ruffled rainbow hint of sun.
People I love stand past their prime.
Their customs from another time.
A grail of milk blue cloud their eyes.
Their hearts uncertain, beating shy.
I touch their hands that have reversed
into a childhood and a curse,
of unleashed memories and desserts,
and no exceptions to the list,
of lovely names prepared by death.
I polish apples in the grass.

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

Painting wonderful visuals Phibby. There is an almost needy warmth about this. A lovely write.

[Ed Hart]

it is so nice visiting with you, polishing apples, sitting by the fire, playing old songs, looking at the clouds, watching your face...

[W.k.kortas]

Oh, sure..anyone can take brown apples and distant lakes and those who are waiting for God, as the saying goes, and weave it all together in such a manner as to make it appear effortless. Yep, no problem at all.

I have said it before, I'm saying it again, and I suspect I will do so until the preacher slaps a handful of dirt upon me; if anyone, anywhere, is writing finer poetry than this, I haven't seen it.

[Rhine Wolf]

Our parents and grandparents have so much wisdom to share, if only we would learn to listen.

beautiful poem.

Blessed be,
Fallon