By JoEllen Moldoff
White apples, unripe in a celadon bowl.
Three moons in a glazed galaxy.
Outside, three deer nuzzling each other in sleep.
Dreaming of tomorrow’s apples, buried under snow.
Our own lives, quick as falling apples.
A stillness in the bowl tonight.
White apples, not moving anywhere.
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JoEllen, lovely poem, a gift. thank you.
JoEllen, what a beautiful poem, thank you so much.