The spindly tree is bare, no leaves, and tangled inside of itself, small little branches, off of larger pointed limbs, tall and trying to get out of the hedge, cold-winter weather clearly on the way, and little circles of an orangish colored fruit, are pinned about with random placement above our heads.
Fat and juicy, catching the flavor of the fruit without the caustic taste, without that feeling of eating a mighty sour powder, with the wetness of the flesh, rolling in, to keep it covered.
“Cut in half this golden fruit, And see the winter come: The spoon; keep shovels close For snow will gather and pile ahead,
The fork; the three tongue tool, Soft flakes with bits of ice Will make it short and cold, And all the winter bare.
The knife; The winds will cut, With wintry sharpness, while stinging rains slice the skin, cold fills the air, Ice comes, stays frozen on the ground.”
by Ralph Peck
Photography by Connie Estes
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