There is no map for how the apples fall.
The tree feels nothing letting go.
Along the crumbling wall that holds the sun-
Baked orchard, shadows ease their way.
There is no map for how the apples
Fall. Silence in the house. The tree sees
Nothing looking out, lets go. I’m more
At ease among shadows than the wall
Of sun stalled above the house. I hold
The orchard, its walls, this silence.
Seasonal, it comes and goes, easing itself
Back into shadows. There’s sweetness
In the crumbling, letting go, the how and why,
This sunbaked nothingness I feel
That comes, goes. What’s sweet is sweet
In so many varieties, becomes nothing
After all. A wall is just a wall in wind
Or rain. A tree a tree. Silence in the house.
The apples fall. There is no map for how.
Shara Lessley
