September 29, 2020

applesauce

You’ll need the bruisiest fruit, the kind littered in your splotchy yard 
next to a bright red hedge that steals your camera’s gaze, though you’ll insist 
on looking up, scanning the matrix of nodular branches for more painterly renditions, 
blemish-less spheres ombréd with the nostalgia of the season. 
You’ll turn your chin from the splatter below, castigate the ravaged quadrants 
where tiny industrious beings have left their traces, cast a punishing shoulder 
against the elements that took the lot down. 

But there is still time.
There is still time.
I’m telling you, there is still time.