The Filling Season

The apple boxes are old, dry, rusted.
Empty as your soul they wait
for the filling season,
when they are once again put to use
doing what they were meant to do
becoming complete as they are filled
with the spiritual fruit that hangs
just out of reach.

About this poem

Sometimes our souls are empty, our spirits are dry. It can be for a day, or a season. It is easy to despair in such times.

But seasons change. Remember that. Seasons change.

Tom