Of green apples and old bike

sun creeps like a trickster's clock on wall



to get up now or fold under white sheets
to break the eggs with a fork or boil them in water   
to cut the blooming roses or let them fall like rosary beads 


it besets her that simple things 
seem like shaking the trees for just a leaf  
(knocking heads is probably more apt) 

to push or pull the doors
to walk to the park or skiphotch to wheat field,         
she jogs her memory of what happened last night 




torrential rain lashing her skin,
fear snapping on heels like demented dogs    
while running headlong into the city smog   



she is lost in the river tide, 
adrift in choices that roots her feet while others fly
(her son buys a second hand bicycle 
because it's dirt cheap than paying for a car)  


until a hand settles firmly on her arm



scent of pine cones and green apples
warm as honeysuckle in springbed,   
kisses cheek in gentle whisper 


it is going to be alright

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  A word with Laurie:   Dementia/Insanity
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   It's a matter of Choice

Picture credit:   here