The Last of the Anna Apples - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Last of the Anna Apples

That lopper-thingie on the end of a pole
Indelicately intrudes among the leaves
Telescoped out, its harsh geometry
Unnatural among the greenery

There seeking out an elusive apple spared
The nightly browsings of the day-shy deer
Or the nightly pillagings of raccoons
Who destroy more than they will ever eat

But there’s that apple – careful, careful – snip:
And down it falls, with an apple-saucy flip!


(I nurture Anna-apple trees, which flourish in warm climates, and every June they bless me with bushels of sweet apples.)

Anna Apples

Mack Hall, HSG

Anna Apples

Sweet Anna apples fall from trees in June
Like childhood summer days gliding to earth
From silvery-grey clouds through cobalt skies
Into the hands of youth in a golden time

Pomona at Play

Mack Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

Pomona at Play

Pomona dances ‘mong the apple trees
Light-footed through the glowing amber light;
At dusk, kissed by the last rain-drops, the breeze
Begins to sigh, and falls, to sleep the night.

And then pale Cynthia, in silver crowned,

Rises to breathe upon each leaf and flower
Her sacred mists, softly and softly around,
And blesses dreams through many a silent hour.

Bold Helios will wake the sleeping east

And laugh away the magic of the dark;
He sets out daylight as a merry feast
And measures out his work with compass and arc

But later, them, for sweet Pomona’s play

Now celebrates the golden end of day.