Sunday, December 29, 2019

Apples and Snow

By T.L. Coston

I wandered through the countryside
To escape the pain of emotional tides
To be free from disappointments over the years
Looking for a sanctum to ease my mind

An abandoned farmhouse providentially found
A brook with clean water rushes abound
Fields scarred with stubbled rows
Poke through a blanket of freshly laid snow

No more fruit does the old, apple tree bear
A hopeful harvest to last this winter’s dread
No more tears can I shed
Every indication points that I should be here

I’m barely existing in this icy cave
Where a single furnace heats my way
By miracle, one vent keeps me warm
I believe God knows where I am

I can’t escape thoughts of food
Daydreaming about everything, even apples stewed
Lamb chops, turkey, a regular holiday feast
This I would enjoy with my husband, Steve

It didn’t take long for the countdown to end
I ate my last apple, now starvation begins
Weak from lack of food, I can’t make it to the brook
How am I going to get out of here?

In the mirror, I saw a ghastly sight
My drawn and haggard face gave me a fright
Clumps of hair fall from my head
If I stay here, I will die

The snow is all the sustenance I have
My head and stomach aches
I’m dizzy and lightheaded; starving is a painful thing
But don’t worry, God sees everything

The nights are longer and extremely cold
I lay down to pray for my soul:
Dear God, please save me.
I’m trying, but I don’t know what to do.

As my mind drifts away in hope of better days
I envisioned a miracle of God’s grace
That the old apple tree bloomed
Resplendent with fruit, here, in January


This poem is based on the journal and documentary of the tragic death of Linda Bishop

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