Apples


I see her in the future
Sitting on the weathered patio
In her old and warped purple lounge chair
Watching apples fall from the tree.
Each gives a painful thump on the well-manicured grass.
Forty year's silence surrounds
The dropping of the apples.
The silence she was forced to maintain.
The words never spoken aloud
Hung in the air like a damp fog.
Instead, she feels the distant pain
Of her jaw clenched
While she endured the repercussions.
Her eyes now fall on each apple,
Struggling to break away
From the harsh overhanging tree.
And if the apples have bruises,
Or a bitter taste
The moment they are bitten into,
She waits.
Soon, the new and blossoming bud
Will mature
And replace the tartness with sweet.
The apple's battle to grow
Under the sharp eye of the tree
Will slowly fade to a memory,
Yet the faint taste of the acrid apple
Will forever linger on her tongue.

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