It grips the branch, ever loosening
Teetering
With each breeze,
A golden globe bracing,
Holding its breath
Wondering
How hard is the fall?
Wondering,
Do I bounce?
Wondering,
Is this how it ends?
Squirrel fodder?
A tracing of its former self,
A shell,
A whisper of skin around
A softening core
The last apple is poised
For the door
To shut on the year
For the fall
Ozhene