The Cow In Apple-Time

 Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.

Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup.
 Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.

She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.

The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.

She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.

She bellows on a knoll against the sky.

Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

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