She watched the apples from her window,
The way they clung to the branches grimly
When the wind blew, making them shiver.
Yet retaining their blush, as if to say
Look at me, and my innocence

She waited for the autumn eagerly,
They swelled importantly, but she knew
That the end was creeping closer,
A gentle touch could make them fly
And land with an honest thud and cracked skin.

Once she put her hand to impassive glass,
As if she wanted to save them.
For all their simpering arrogance,
She didn't like to see them in pain.
Weeping as time coated them in mould.

She bore witness to their disorderly end,
Spilled beneath the tree that birthed them
Like discarded marbles. She would've saved them,
But thought there was little point.
They always grew again, every year.