Soft Decay

How do we compost the structures of ourselves within ourselves? What returns with time? How is it transformed?

There’s an apple on the ground its color gave way to dark shades of brown, white spots intact. I wonder if it’s actually a pear? Memories get a little fuzzy. The top looked hollow, dry. The bottom a silvery green from mold growing, a life into its own.

The colors strike a chord in my heart that’s still ringing out.

The orchard is far from me now, the seasons turned round. I know the apples are green or maybe the pears are light brown and they aren’t ripe, aren’t ready now.

Does the tide know when it turns?