Come tell me what the forest says

in wind whispered voices

when you walk alone 

and the moon is watching

heavy lidded, milk white iris

only a fragment

veins of stardust silver and blue

and red-shifted messages

passed back and forth

when no one is looking.

Don’t tell me you can’t hear it—

leaves rustled by the wind whispering

their poetry of the forest at twilight

Don’t tell me you can’t feel it on your skin

aspens shivering

like the way you came to me

with storm clouds in your eyes

and earth under your fingernails

the scent of apples on your breath—

an orchard left to the wild

Don’t tell me it isn’t you who walks

hooded and cloaked

by the rain and wind

It was easy to find you after you left

following the trail of cedar smoke

the scraps you left for me

the scent of apples

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

7 responses to “Apples”

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