She reaches to the sky, her arms the branches
of an apple tree, her fingers the pink of pippins,
her hair the green leaves that flutter and rustle
with spring gusts, the squirrels that bound
from branch to branch like the quickest of smiles,
the sudden shift of mood. I want to lie beneath
her, wait for her touch that like a crack of a bough
snaps my attention to her. In the spring, she rains
white-blush petals down upon me, her passion
flooding the ground where I lay, covering me
till I drown for love of her—and does she know
that I lie here for this? To be blanketed by her
kiss, these pink lips that take me in, hold me
rigid, till I expire always in her dewy, wet field?
In Praise of Apples by J.C. Reilly | Garden Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser
JC Reilly is the author of What Magick May Not Alter, a Southern Gothic novel-in-verse, set in 1920's Louisiana.
