The last few apples
hang colourless, still
surrounded by curled leaves.
That smell.
Wooden floors
throw back complaints
outdoors merges in.
Years have passed.
Still. A silent ceremony
brown spots on thin skin
a windfall, crestfall.
Fruitless again.
© Saradha Koirala 2011
Hi, I like these short, evocative poems of yours. Nice poem. Look forward to your next collection.
Thank you 🙂
Love the end… ‘windfall, crestfall. /Fruitless again…’ Fantastic. I have things falling in my poem too this week …..