Saturday In December

Snapping bites into sour apples,

In my quiet room.

The one we kept made for a guest.

Chewing as loudly as possible... Juice trickles down my chin.

No mirror, yet face paints a silly grin.

Horse bites, I always snag some seeds. Often swallowing them.

I still laugh that guts grow trees.

We are all passengers here.

Too gentle for this hurried life.

Taking up spaces, leaving less,

Frantically chasing happiness, reaching out and falling prey.

Amnesia, what a profound feature!

There is a warmth that radiates from my freckled skin.

Whittling minutes, desperate to somehow harness it, find my strength, and begin

again.