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.)
