It’s hard to believe in May,
sky the gunmetal gray
that murders more than sleep.
Clouds won’t leave the sun alone.
Nor will wind, insisting on long johns,
scarves, gloves, coats and woolen mail;
has us longing for Sir Lancelot.
It’s hard to believe in May.
Wind sniffles and everybody trembles.
Apple was apple, not forbidden fruit
jacking us into knowledge of what
we couldn’t imagine. Which was precious.
She’s gone, but if she weren’t she’d say
that even on the outskirts of the garden
venom was sweet. We hadn’t any regret.
When the road forked we forked, too,
but before we did we bit deep.
Forbidden or not, apple was wholly apple.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.
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