A row of apple trees lines
the winding road.
And false-brown leaves
whirl dervishly
in the roweling wind—
a wind that’s blowing through
low-lying branches.

Small apples, dropping like nuts,
pelt the earth like a joke from the past.
So, technically, it’s Springtime,
but winter makes great news.

Silhouettes of a man and a woman
move inside a Model A.
Despite the cold, they have the
windows down.  The man
greets the morning
like a prophet bearing great joy.
Only this time it’s personal.
He sports a welcoming smile, nothing else—
at least, nothing I choose to speak of.

The blond beside him wears
last year’s sunscreen, found in the car,
and warm yellow mittens.

first published in Rearview Quarterly