the apple trees moved as if breathing. the clouds gentle in the bright sky.
my footprints led to beneath the shade of my favorite tree,
golden apples hanging pregnant and heavy on the slender branches. leaves making dappled sunlight,
cool in the hot summer daze.
in my lap lay a book, words softly sharp against the crisp, cool white.
dried red leaves hidden with butterfly wings inside the pages.
an apple cupped in my hands, golden and blending with the peach tan of my skin.
fruit-flesh breakable against my lifelines,
sweet to the core.
my teeth sink in and then there's only four teardrop seeds, carved in ebony.
the tears of the fruit, she always said,
her smile hazy with the fog of my memory.
the sun is heavy and warm on my shoulders.