So cold that piled high books
fertilised the back orchard and now
biting the apple’s flesh we hear
a seed’s murmur.

Unearthed chapters are spat out
during the fruit season,
one could build a country
out of paper colonies.

It begins to sound hollow. Fingertips reach
a place where the core hits stone.
The past finds traces of ice
inside the children’s mouth.


Maria Stadnicka

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