A new poem

Gnarled old apple trees twist,
almost as though each branch seeks
to pluck and consume its own apples.

Winter, good weather for whist,
reveals that drama to the eye,
which cheap leaves can no longer hide.

Grim oaks watch, surly, and hiss,
as squirrels scamper and grab the acorn
may not fall far from the tree,
but with a kiss
the finders run far away.