Untitled

Apples collect in the shade-gray grass and become
tin can dull, covered with browning sores under
the green tree-heads that stir and whisper.
Mold seems a blue algae to cover these. It puts me
in mind of plaque -- the kind that appears
on teeth, the kind that appears on the minds
of those with Alzheimer's. A young woman, white-skinned
and orange-red-haired, leans against a brick wall -- her face
away. Spider-leg tangles of hair crawl on the back
of her neck. She reminds me of an older
woman I know with those same brightnesses. For
a moment it doesn't matter which is which
because of what everyone knows
about age and growth. One set of fruit
drops on the grass every year
and every year it disappears.

Copyright Louise Robertson