I picked apples and the last tomato,
but there are still plenty in stores.
And they will be there all winter,
but my brain and body knows it’s
apple time and some things are ending.
Morning comes and the celestial gears click,
the tension almost equal parts day and night.
You say autumn, but not until tonight,
when no one will think of it
but for smoke from my winterwood fire.
Things were different. Innocent. An eternal summer.
The trees are full of apples now.
Parents bring their children to pick them.
Cider and doughnuts, harvest, a warming fire.
No fear of another fall. No sins.