Sunday, September 28, 2008


Election Day

Fall comes on and this is how the apple rots. On the limb or on the ground, in the bottom of the barrel. Rolling forgotten in the back of the farmer’s pickup like a BB under the skin. It puckers, contracts, shrivels into something smaller and softer than it should be. An old woman’s wrinkled face, too toothless to speak clearly. Or marrow seeping from a crushed bone. A harbinger of pulp. A temporary stain. Fall comes on and this is how the apple rots, leaving behind its seed.


Liz said...

Fab poem, Sharon.

And that doll outfit is just so cool.

Congrats on your recent publishing successes.

Would be nice to see you soon in 30:30 - have just got started there ; )

Sharon Hurlbut said...

Thanks Liz! Well, I guess you talking me into it. 30/30, here I go...