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January Apples

I have become
January apples, soft, though sweet.
Flesh withered, slumped and baked,
My bloom is gone.

No summer pippin, I,
No garland in bright May.

I have no show in me that's left to make,
No sour-sweetness beckoning.
Perhaps there is no more in me
Of gladness for the eye, or heart, or mind.

Plain nourishment is all I have--
But I will keep you warm, my love,
With memories of spring.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Very well done, Cat. I think you're still a darned tasty apple!
Ria said…
That certainly makes me thankful for the little things I have. They may not be perfect and they may not be fresh and new, but they're there and they keep me sustained until brighter days. Thank you for expressing that so succinctly.
grace soha said…
hi-this is so beautiful. (I'm a reader of the Brighid day poems...). so wonderful to enjoy who and where we are. yes. thanks for the gift.
kevin roberts said…
Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Anonymous said…
Ooh, that's beautiful! Thanks. Encore!

Francis sirfrATearthlinkETC

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