Windfalls

by John Robertson Nicoll

We scoured the ground
for the fallen treasure,
eager to gather in our prizes
before the season of bare trees
and unyielding ground.
They lay before us
Imperfect in their beauty
and bruised
but still with sweetness
locked inside.

A day later
we sat down to the pie
you had laboured over
as conscientiously
as in the days
when my enjoyment mattered
so much more to you.
It’s warmth and sweetness
hung in the air between us
like a reprimand.