Again, it’s that time of the year
When the roads are paved with apples.
Yellow and red oxidized chaos,
Smelling wet and rotten sweetly.
Again, crushing them with my feet,
When I could’ve been eating them,
Apples. Now they aren’t for me,
Mushy brown and rotting sweetly.
Perhaps, when it’s this time next year
I’ll be able to catch the apples
Right into the hem of my dress
In time, before they rot sweetly.