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
shannon p. laws 