chewed up, half swallowed,
yellowing into a pulp,
skins curling and peeling.
Am I too late?
Where was I when they blossomed
lightly on the breeze,
forms still full and curved
before the rotting happened.
I am too late to even watch them fall.
My fingers remember the way
the gentle tug (that was all it took)
felt just before they snapped.
This time it was not me.
This time it was not me.
I am too late or
removed for this.
I cannot bring myself
to pick them from the ground,
carry them with me.
December 9
December 9
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