Page One

apples ripen, apples fall 

to earth’s humescent embrace 

crispness bows to bruises brown 

sugars ferment, cell walls break 

til summer’s pride demises 

into autumn’s mushy slime 

of ovaries overripe 

of decrepitude sublime. 

too soft for pie, these apples, 

for eating  by hand too late; 

with help of heat and pressure, 

sweetest mushiness their fate. 

when I would have my mother 

hold me, by life’s ocean tossed, 

I make do very well instead 

with a soothing bowl of applesauce.