Green, gold, red-ticked, the fallen apples
on crabgrass show every stage of ripening,
every possible glory and defeat,
with worm holes, darkening and dents.
Odd, the occasional perfect specimen
whose twig unaccountably gave way.
The tree's muscular roots surface to meet
its fruits, mute as whales
on a long journey. Whatever breaches
this August soil glistens.
The abundance in aridity startles.
Supernatural, the sunlight
fisted and hitting the ground.
I inhale mince pie dirt, scoop one
apple up and bite into
sweetness spread so thin it colors
the sky beyond the branches.
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