October 31, 2023

the last apple

Sunday and I’m on the ladder installing storm windows. Already, so much 
has disappeared, garden beds flattened. The bees have finished 
their feasting, deer turning their sights back to the woods. I pull socks 
from the higher shelves, rummage the cabinet for tea. It is almost raining, 
clouds muffling the afternoon. On a far tree, the last apple. 
There is always something to grieve.
There is always something to rejoice.
The glass speckles with ladybugs trying to get in. 
I squeeze a plastic jar of honey, and a thin string of gold falls in my mug,
sinking all the way to the bottom.