Low lying branch on a fertile apple tree.
You are shaken to your knees.
Am enthralled by the tapping of a foot.
The fidgeting of a hand.
All of the harvest…
Often more than one can stand.
Do your voices take you?
They take me.
Oft, times, where I do not want to be.
My trunk speaks a troublesome mind.
And, yet, my feet travel differently.
The insight is human.
Though, anxiety bleeds and broods.
Sun wake the days.
But the plummet?
Sun drenched with tartness.
No color rule the day.
Just strain from the gray.
The reality of disorder still a slippery slope.
And, a bite for the sweetest fruit.
Thus, anxious are the bruised at the bottom of a wooden barrel.
Crowds will gather.
Ripe for the picking.
Tender the juices that corrode core’s marrow.