January 10, 2010

Several years ago I went to Colorado with friends. While lounging in the cabin, I wrote a short poem that has now been lost or published in an unread journal. In the poem, I thoughtfully remarked that i had never seen an apple in the snow.

Along my walk today

Just off the concrete path,

I spied an apple in the snow.

It was not shiny or red.

In fact, it was bruised

and half-eaten.

Perched just feet away

were hungry crows whose

black eyes were counting

the ghosts that surely

swarmed around me.

But I, engaged

by the fallen fruit,

looked away from the birds,

curtailed my conversation with

Stevens and thought

about how what has not been

is not at all similar

to what never will be.