ME WITH APPLES
For I am sick
of love, but feed me, sweet,
On wild and
bitter fruit from upland tree
a savage harvest, late and few,
else could ease this ache in me.
fruit for those who love in peace,
the earth about the root, and feed
hand the heavy laden bough,
For me the
that blossom on high lone hill,
but in defiance
To earth untended,
grow with wind and rain,
their core the taste of spring.