Poached Quince Cake
Last night I thought about you, and then the fruit shrivelled at my feet. They were too far away for me to reach for, so I couldn't. For I'm not the kind that'll take root, and put it in my mouth, and call it something-like-survival. They looked sweet, but they also had a disease. I was unsure if I knew the difference. I learned more from spoiled seeds in my teeth than my eyes could ever.
I wonder if the trees notice the absence of fruit. And who tells them to fall, and how do they know it's time. But after enough coldness, well, we'd do anything to feel something. It's winter, and this is called wither, and now, skin hurts.