You are a bruising apple
that dangles near
the end of my limb.
My hold on you weakens
with the whistled pushes of wind.
Soon I’ll lose my grip:
a thunk on the ground
at my feet. Love finishes
like a season
that freezes once it’s complete.

©Shawn Nacona Stroud
♦This poem was previously published in the Winter 2009 issue of Up the Staircase.