Tell (Poem 177)

I can't tell 

if it's you and me

or just you.

What it is 

that causes you 

to curl in on yourself

like a snail, small 

and mud-colored,

huddling against

the dangers of this

world, deep 

inside your shell?

Is it the wind whipping

the apple tree's branches

against the window

that frightens you?

Or the apples themselves,

laying uneaten and 

mouldering on the grass

below our window?

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six