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!