The apples rotted on the ground, their season done. No one is starving here but there is sorrow. After all, we are mortal. This is not the time of year to be walking in the orchard. Shhh, the trees are sleeping. We climb our mountains quietly. Two thousand years of tears is not enough to round all the rough corners. Our flesh is torn from going on. The climb is steep and Time has bony fingers It is not the sweet red apple that we sorrow for, nor the shivering limb; we mourn for blossoming.