Green orbs plumped up and mellowed to a red flush:
Some apples nestling in the grass of the corral are ready.
The worms knew, who tasted them first,
as did the horse who chewed a green apple and spat,
picked a redder one, dripped juice.
At end of day I sit on the front steps.
The horse stares at me over the fence
like I am a thief.
My penknife that never mended a quill
pares quartered apples
brings worms out to the light of dusk.
5
Marie-Andrée Auclair’s poems have found homes in several print and online publications in Canada, where she lives, and other countries, most recently in Acta Victoriana (Canada); 34 Orchard (USA); The Frogmore Papers (UK) and Tokyo Poetry Journal (Japan). She enjoys writing (of course), photography, traveling and adding to her cooking repertoire after each trip.
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