November 10, 2020

the remaining apples

The wind didn’t take them. Last week's surprise of snow. The pies 
we assembled at the close of September. Whatever malady had invaded
the upper branches, and the neighboring oaks beyond. I had imagined 
the long absence, winter bearing down, a scene tilting away from minimalism 
and toward an eerie, disturbed starkness. I had girded myself to expect less, 
resolved to accept the inevitabilities of the season. But look. Even Nature 
resists her own course, grasping at the flying trapeze of ambition. 
New evidence has emerged at this cold, late hour. How can I not now rejoice 
at every rebellion thrashing against the tide? How can I possibly believe any other story 
than this one?