the apple tree sitting in the orchard        

twitches in the wind; its bark is too cold     

for the ants to crawl on, and the roots     

are losing their dignity to the dirt  

as the snow threatens to arrive again   

and kill off the profit of the season     

the last family of November comes  

to peal the worth off its decaying limbs

their fingers rip off the crisp fruit 

clinging to the branches; the snap

of the stem bonded to the arm cries

as the family laughs and moves on

the warm-blooded fire of four

tears through the field, suffocating 

apples in their stomachs and chewing through

white flesh as it sticks to their throats 

the ripe apples are green with envy for the

rotten ones decaying in the grass with

scattered teeth and seeds, and they quiver

with fear as the paper bag fills

it overflows– they toss their least favorite 

away, to the earth, and walk by as it

sits stranded for days between the mornings

and nights, while the weeks melt together 

and then it sinks, and the shape caves, falling 

into itself and browning against the sun 

now the mold and charcoal are bleeding 

through the thin red layer of skin 

the maggots bite the flesh, it breaks, and sours 

joining the grass in eating the fruit to its core

the orchard closes until next autumn

and the trees are naked and frozen once again