Monday, December 31, 2007



One decrepit apple
wrinkled and brown
steadfastly clasps
its bough.

Wailing winter winds
marched in like a lion
and April’s showers
could not dislodge it.

Its tiny dilapidated body
once plump and crisp
and honey scented
now, as delicate as
ancient parchment
as tenacious as time.

Lindsay Riggs Brown

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