on the death of an old woman

 
 
 
 
there are no apples  
left on the trees  
 
the sun taste of bitter  
almonds on my skin  
 
the countenance of grace  
is a broken kaleidoscope  
 
bridges crumple under the  
weight of grief  
 
the skies are dreamless  
with winter  
 
the laughter of children  
loses innocence  
 
and the words, "love  
you."
those sweet, genuine  
words
will have no permanence  
in the mouth  
of death