The fruit has fallen, its season
done. No one is starving here but
there is sorrow. After all, we are mortal.
One must have faith to walk
through a frozen orchard. Shhh,
the trees are sleeping.
We climb our mountains quietly.
Two thousand years of tears is not enough
to round all the rough edges.
Our flesh is torn
from going on. The climb is steep
and Time has bony fingers.
It is not the sweet red apple
that we sorrow for, nor the shivering limb;
we mourn the withered blossoming.
Too long, this winter
that has chilled us to the core. Come, Spring,
and thaw our hardened hearts.