They say apples don't fall far from the tree,
But they have changed.
They are rounder now,
Crimson with an anxiety-
pin pricked like flushed cheeks.
Looking as though the generations of autumn infused time into their skin,
Peeling back now more easily.
They've grown softer.
The fruit more sweet, full of idle hopes but bruised by gravity,
Until the ground swallows it whole when left in solitude.
A cycle of growth and stagnancy.
Their stems did not hold fast enough-
these fragile trees, the mother of fruit,
so worn and withered.
Aged to produce but yet not to nurture.
This is their season,
their springboard,
their notice.
Everybody is searching for them
But wait,
aren't apples meant to be eaten?
