The Last Apple on the Tree
The Last Apple on the Tree.
I hang alone,
passed by and forgotten.
The wind mocks me as it whispers softly by.
My friends lay scattered before me amongst the autumn leaves;
The sun, once so kind, exposes my long ago unblemished skin,
now mottled and brown.
Rain pummels me; and yet still I hang.
The days pass slowly; darkly.
I have never been displayed,
or proudly polished on a trouser leg; before being devoured.
I am and will forever be;
The last apple on the tree.
© 2018 Taylor Crowshaw