t h e f a l l
W E S M U L L E N
It snowed in the orchard
and the only color we saw
was the last apple swinging.
You stood on the white ground,
amid the whirling flakes,
as if you were lost in a school of ivory fish.
When the wind blew on the apple, it spun,
always in the same direction. But the stem
never broke, only twirled itself tighter.
The apple stood still when I looked at the snowflakes;
The snowflakes were still when I looked at you.
You are only still when I close my eyes.
For a moment, I was unsure
whether you were under the apple
or under every other tree.
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania's
kelly writers house