The apples are dropping in 6s and 7s, straight to the dirt by the roses
Too small, too sour for even the dog
who sniffs
and stares accusingly
The season is waning …
It does every year
A tiny wedge south against the mountains
where I walk to the sunset and listen to children
drenched in their last bit of summer
Cartwheels and picnics and swims in the lake
One last trip to the zoo
Soccer camps and church camp and sleeping in late
All drawn into an untidy string
Will I like my Ms. Wilson? Will Julie sit beside me?
Will the work be too hard or too boring?
Back to school shopping and pics by the door
Marking the year’s transformation
For all of the future
For all of the past
For all of the bittersweet changes
We bow to what is, and to what may be
And the apples that nourish the soil
