This one’s for you

September morning just cool enough
to show the soil’s breath. Forest
in fog, new gold under
old green, give me

your delectable frost, fine
web of lines, the wind-
fallen apple that fits
so snugly in the palm

& when I take a bite it bites back.
Who’d want their sugar
straight, without
some tartness? Give it to me

dry, as they say of wine. Impure,
like every true love. And
the must – ah, let it settle
to the bottom

week by week until all
the fog is gone
& the bottle brims
with light!

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