In my fist I hold a cheap red apple,
asymmetrical, ready to be lifted,
crunched, before we head out for a meander
into amber woods. It’s October
when autumn rattles branches to the floor.
This apple handles true and simple, impossible
to capture in words but snuggles ready for eating
in an upturned palm, enclosed, like when our fingers
intertwine, eyes meet and a lump, half-sobbing,
stops my throat in a form we have no words for.