the fruit of Happy Valley decorates the trees along the walk to the bay

apples blush and drop to the ground, the cherry is orange red

hard-sided pears, as many as the tree has leaves, present themselves in portrait

hidden under the branches, purple frost rubs off a plum’s sweet-shiny skin

a block over is an old lover, a crescent gap the size of my mouth is missing from his middle

bite taken, the remaining flesh kept cold is left to ripen

we ate our dessert too soon, a short harvest that blinked by

apples litter the ground

I am tired of apples