far below where apples like to decay,
you might find what you missed
at first-- an old gratitude.
Thanks, world,
for that boy in the strawberry-blond
aura, the one
with a smile that might have saved
a girl's small life
when only empty holes yawned wide
in her unspeaking heart.
Gratitude still rises there
with the waters of spring,
lifting from far below
the pond-lanterns of skunk cabbage
and the choiring frogs,
where hopes and apples
like to decay.
J. Pratt-Walter
(c) 2014
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