The moon is an exotic fruit sitting
precariously in the clutch of branches;
a forlorn look on its face; lost soul.
Our apple trees have been bare for months;
they spend winter in a mire of despondency,
raking the sky for fugitive fruits.
Buds are fingertips in our garden;
they are ineffectual in an expanding universe;
roots, on the other hand, have the brains for trees.
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