Liz Riseden
In the grass-heavy field by
mountain
freeway
stands
The Apple Tree
Old, voluminous as
a pioneer’s faith
Spring whispers haloed white
blossoms’ pink
Summer croons green shade
Honeysuckle yellow
Fall booms out
riotous fruit
its leaves
red, wine,
orange, gold
sunset settled
on earth
Winter shrieks,
ice white
whisper colors pale
implies ravenous coyote.
How often I rush past
these metamorphoses,
feel defined.
Calypso
Amy Bouse