Apples

Apples 

They said she carried the quietness, 

holding words like secret currency

for rare, heavy occurrences.

She grew like an apple in the shade

until the day her grandmother’s

red-green apples descended,

waxy skins holding the summer's trapped heat,

sinking into a cardboard box lined with straw,

to be banished to the dim depth of the pantry shelf

a hidden sweetness

ripening only in the dark.

"For the winter, dear.

So we have fresh when the earth is stale”

A small distance closed,

passing fruit with the deliberate grace

of a child handing over gold and silver ornaments

to dress the pine, each sphere heavy and smooth,

cool as her own unspoken thoughts

that had always been drifting through the room.