A Blizzard Of Falling Apples

The wind rises with the dawn
and a blizzard replicates an April shower.
But today’s precipitation from
a neighboring orchard isn’t pink petals.
Rather, it is the steady thud
of apples, rotted and worm-burrowed.
How could a season so ripe
and flourishing come to such a sad end?
But perhaps this forsaken meal
wasn’t meant for the likes of you or me.
An overgrown orchard requires
no tending hands to fulfill its purpose.
The absence of footsteps does
not mean that there won’t be visitors.
These crisp October mornings
will give way to sun-filled afternoons.
And to a drunken hum as
others feast on its intoxicating nectar.
A blizzard of falling apples
favors the discriminating sweet tooth.

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