My Own Poetry

I wrote this poem in the fall of last year,  in my senior year poetry class called "Live Poets and Society." It was one of my favorite classes, particularly because I met the coolest people in that class that I've ever met in my life. The poem came to me when I was walking down my street at home. Somehow the rhythmic padding of my shoes against the asphalt and the crunching sound of the leaves gave way to this poem in my head. I hope you enjoy it.

Harvested

Decay gives way to dust
what’s fertilized in mud,
leaf veins, gauzy membranes,
rotten crab apples crushed.

December-born she swore
her birthday was in fall,
in want of, in wafts of
rotten crab apples crushed.

She wears orange all year,
the wanton hue of God –
“cider,” she says “is best from
rotten crab apples crushed."