That Which Goes Unsaid In Apple Season
There are things never told.
Autumn air
apple crisp
in cooling sun.
We cannot let go of memories
when darkness comes near.
We bring them back,
reach upward, grasp then
like stars among leaves
now green and saffron
of season.
We never pray for trivial things--
we only know we are alive
when apple season comes
and orchards blend ruddy and turquoise
in crackling afternoons
brimful of buckets
gone heavy with harvest.
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