Golden Apples edit 2

[Brownlie]

Golden Apples


The night before last winter fell,
I was sitting on my desk, pondering
over an unwritten tale in my head,
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to check
the damage, but instead I found
death speeding low over the town.
Her cloak reeked of orange blossoms. -- I  guess the only thing I can say is to try and tighten up the language.


Curious, I grabbed my book and pen,
and, after locking the door, 
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if everyone but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a coffin being lowered into the grave. -- Are you talking about a funeral dirge? I suppose that detail can be specified.

So the thought came: was I her mark?
And fear filled me, slowing my steps
and quickening my pulse. But then,
a maiden's scream shot through the silence -- The word "Maiden" will make the poem quaint in my opinion. I suppose that could work if you indulge that quality of the word.
like the fateful first seedling of spring, -- I guess there's that "April is the cruelest month" bit, but otherwise I'm not so sure this is needed. Perhaps it is though I'm being lazy here. 
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.

Near the town's plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
after a gust of wind made him slip.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. -- I kind of like this idea because it is like a humorous reworking of poets who do that sort of thing with fruit metaphors.

As a dutiful neighbor, I offered Judy
a few vain sympathies, then left,
as death did. And when I reached my door,
I found that I'd forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until sunrise
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.

I kind of like the aspects of this poem that show how distanced writing can be from actual events. Rhythmically the poem may be off, but I'm not sure what you're after in that regard.