Crabapples sway in clusters along the walkway,
where we step through, hand in hand
while laden branches kiss your forehead,
and I close my eyes intoxicated by the autumn pome,
staining the street, sweet, under our feet,
as I let your shoulders guide me through
the uneven cobblestones.

Next spring, you lean me against the timorous tree,
and tuck crabapple blossoms behind my ear
And as we laugh, the breeze stirs,
showering you with petals where you kneel,
clutching a ring in your hand, a promise on your lips,
And my every beautiful bloom exists
To brush the crown of your head, to caress the curve of your shoulders
To touch the palm of your hand,
and to rest in your heart

In actuality through the unblemished peel,
crabapples taste tart
and stew, entrenched in the dirt,
Seething under the laborious sun.
Unable to entice your hands to move past the grocery nectarines
or ripe strawberry lips, nor ignore the scent of mulberries on your breath,
or your dyed blackberry cheeks,
All I can do is believe.

Crisp, blush red skin turns,
unheeded on the ground to a wilted fertilizer; ripe enough for the flies,
Tender enough to be crushed into concrete
where we once strolled, hand in hand.