Charles Cessna

Hanging

I am left
hanging as
the apple hangs
at the highest point of the tree.
So many
pried loose
become mash
under the hooves of cows.

When days
grow cold,
the sunlight lacks
a certain hardness
in the early morning.
Gradually
color changes
from ruddy red
to dull brown and gray.

Look up, look,
I am turning idly in the wind,
even as the last leaves fall,
and the cows lope insensibly towards the hay.

Charles Cessna hails from western North Carolina and now resides in the Piedmont with his wife and cocker spaniels. His poetry most recently appeared in the North American Review and is forthcoming in The Broken Plate. contact