It's early

It's hard to be inspired by four walls

They neither talk nor sing

Their bland beige texture is both bland and beautiful

i can not fault them for their devotion to monotony

For it was not their doing.

 

The T.V. is on.

Images flickering every six seconds or so.

There is no volume which is just as well

i have had enough of people hawking their goods and wares

 

It's a sure sign that autumn is wandering in

i can taste the melancholy at the base of spine

The season is coming with it's chill and falling leaves

Poems and spiced cider.

 

The apples - they know something of life and eternity

Well beyond the leaves and dew.

The apples have no sheet rock beneath a textured wall paper

Insulated by meat, juice and olfactory stimulating flavor - they tempt the senses

Unlike the porcupine fiberglass that slumbers in the wall.

 

Even in death they do not die

Their pomace fills the late season air

And they melt to nitrogen to feed the soil

To feed the trees.

To feed the apples.

These four walls (seven if you include the alcove) do not inspire me.

i do not blame them for it was not their doing.

But the apples and the worms, the soils and the trees

The stinging wind burn of the autumns departure on my face

These do inspire.

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