The Apple Tree

I go to the apple tree where the bishop hung the witch. Her body gone, I find a lone apple in its branches.

Under the autumn moon I halve the fruit and reveal its sacred star. Half for me, half for her, I mourn a wise, kind soul.

Then I dream.

Then she teaches.

Copyright © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

Discover more of my Aethereal Musings.

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