Golden Apples edit 2

[tectak]

Hi river,
there comes a time for prose. It is when it wants to become a poem. To make it so is not as easy as simply sticking in line  breaks. I want to like this for its prose and so that we can agree at the outset, that is how I am going to read it.

Golden Apples

The night before last winter fell, Caution. Construction work ahead. The  night before last, winter fell. Yep. That is clear... but  lookee, I added a comma. Surely you didn't mean  "the night before, last winter fell"?  No. Of course not. Thing is, I am reading this out loud. Did you?
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk 
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead 
saw death speeding low over the town, 
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms. Love it. See it. Do not yet understand it. You do not need generically different oranges. Orange blossom, singular, is just fine.

Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds. Temptingly dream-like  but  because I "know" you I don't think you would go down that route.I must say, though, that you do seem spacially challenged. You were inside then went outside then went in again to get your pen, then went out and followed a fast-moving meteorological phenomena through the clouds whilst  noting empty streets er, below. So you were up looking down or down looking up as you moved through those streets  by some means. Hmmm. Dreamy.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then, "then, and" is  clunky and probably avoidable by ommission. Try it with a period after   business.
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave. Trying too hard causes mixed metaphorical musings. A dirge by any name is a sound. A box is a box is a box, lowered, raised or left where it is.
So the thought came: was I her mark? Why did this thought come to you? It didn't to me and I've been with you since you left your place. Is there something you know that you thought you had told me? Well, you didn't...at least not to involve the causational "so".

Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then, Bugger me. Three cliches in a row plus a physiological paradox thrown in for good measure.Don't see that this adds anything useful. Padding.
a girl's scream shot through the silence When did the dirge stop dirging?
like the fateful first seedling of spring, You have done it again. Mixed metaphor due to terminological imbalance. A scream is a sound. A seedling is a seedling is a seedling...though why is the first one fateful and even  if you can tell me, what does it sound like? An onion, maybe?
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited. That will slow your pulse if just walking slowly speeds it up. Please don't tell me we are in Backwards Land

Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son 
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window 
when a gust of wind pushed him off. No.Construction wonky. When did he fall? Before the gust of wind or after? This is an old chestnut. At which point do you fall off a bridge?
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess. I am sure this is a great explanatory descriptor but I don't yet know what a sower is. I have a feeling I won't like it. Already it seems contextually isolated.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest, You DO know that the zest of an orange is that little volatile mist that spits out if the crumpled skin? Blond hair? Get outta here.
her ripe breasts to the oily rind, What a gal.
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh. You DO know that cunts come in a range of colours, scents, varying degrees of moisture and engorgement but not orange Anyway, poetic wisdom, you are ill advised to go there as so little rhymes with orange. A  cunt is only slightly better than an orange. Hunt, punt, runt.

A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left Do you mean "in vain, I left few sympathies" as I cannot get meaning from "vain sympathies"
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen. Hmmm. Oh gawd...it isn't a dream, please don't tell that then you woke up with your dick in an orange and your pen turned in to a waking Gestaltism key

Good and bad  but mostly let down by sloppy handling of detail. To be fair, that is probably because there is too much detail.
I hope the above is the most recent draft. I can't do it again.
Best,
tectak
Second draft:

The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale
on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage,
but saw instead death speeding low
over the town, her cloak
reeking of orange blossoms.

Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were completely empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?

Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.

Near the town plaza,
Mrs. Miller's son had fallen
from Judy Bennett's window when
a gust of wind pushed him off.
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.

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

First draft:

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.

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.

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
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
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.

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.