Apples rot on the orchard floor,

abandoned by the farmer. His child,

now a grown man, killed

in the war. What point in apples

once your child is dead?

What point in faith or fortune, sun

or stars? His grief all the burden

he can bear – a bushel basket more

would overwhelm him entirely.

He struggles to recall joy.

He is not the only one who knows

this brutal loss. Surely it should come

with its own name. The Inuits

reportedly have many words

for snow. Grief,

like snow, differs in color

and weight, depending

on the loss. He questions what

to do next, prays the Universe

will offer peace, will say

there is a point in going on.

Young Tom will never return to this farm.

Useless to keep it, when a developer

will readily pay to plow under the crops,

fell the trees. He cannot explain, even

to himself, why he stays on, each morning

the same: He gazes at fallen apples,

herds goats into orchard aisles to gorge

on their decomposing sweetness.

Kelly Ramsdell Fineman lives in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and has won awards from Writer’s Digest for her work. Her poems have appeared in several anthologies, in journals including Up & Under, Chantarelle’s Notebook, and U.S. 1 Reports, and in books for the commercial and educational markets. Her first picture book, At the Boardwalk, was published by Tiger Tales Books in March 2012.

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