The apple treeBehind the houseHas long agoStopped bearing fruit It stands aloneIn sickness boldHalf its branchesDead or dying Leaves the hueOf summers pastDefy the sunThe pouring rain Bound there inWhite-knuckled gripOn mournful twigsOn listless boughs As autumn fadesThe leaves succumbEach one aSmall gold suicide Each gilded dropA dying sparkA universe nowMute in death No one … Continuar leyendo “The Apple Tree” by Michael L. Utley