Sour Grapes and Rotten Apples

by George Freek

I watch a girl with golden hair
swing down the street,
but we’ll never meet.
Still, the flesh stirs,
as a blossom stirs,
but the unfolding is too long.
As clouds fade away,
So do my urges.
It’s nature’s way.
Yet I feel winter arrives too soon.
I smell the apples
falling from my tree.
The scent is as sweet
as freshly laundered cotton,
but the apples, alas,
have become rotten.

George Freek

George Freek’s poem “Enigmatic Variations” was recently nominated for Best of the Net. His poem “Night Thoughts” was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize.





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