9.3.16

Chickadee-dee-dee,
Chickadee-dee-dee.

The apples are growing fat, fertile, red and ripe,
Any fallen ones decaying on grass that is still rough
And dry, scratching the skin of the fruit
And of my bare legs.

The leaves from the birch tree are blowing in the wind -
I want to use the word tinkling, although I hear no sound.
A crow perches on top, guarding, following the self-preserving
Pull of its black body.

Chickadee-dee-dee,
Chickadee-dee-dee.

I can almost smell the lake in the wind, the sweet scent
Of willows and freshwater. The light, already dimming -
Over two months past summer solstice - brings
A bittersweet ache to my chest.

And isn’t that the way with autumn? The nostalgia
It somehow drags out from deep within us? The way
I begin to hear in the key of A major,
Seeing red, like the apples.