by David Anson Lee

 

Apples split the ground,
sweetness bruised by frost.
Mist gathers where your laughter once stood,
thinner now, but stubborn.

We planted these trees
when hope could be counted:
buds, seasons, the promise of return.
Now each trunk wears its years
in rings we never touch.

A robin perches on a limb
too fragile for flight
and sings anyway.

Between fruit and rot,
between leaving and staying,
I find you: not whole,
not gone,
but luminous in the pause
where grief learns how to breathe.

David Anson Lee is a poet whose work explores memory, landscape, and the intersections of personal and ecological attention. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, including Ink Sweat & Tears, Braided Way, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Right Hand Pointing, and Unbroken Journal, among others. He lives in Texas.