Too Late
Late evening light sorts the leaves
of an old apple tree beside the backyard deck
an heirloom variety whose name I almost recall…
Pippin. Newton Pippin. Grown by presidents
Washington and Jefferson
Late for whom, you ask?
for what? the hovering night
coming on to receding daylight
for what they make each evening
as if they’d just met on a dance floor
and were too young to know restraint
later, much later
after a dozen apple children
small green misshapen with black spots
we could have sprayed for
but didn’t
we taste a few
sharp, barely sweet, almost bitter
They ripen in storage, but we won’t wait
they’re not our uses, these seeded capsules
gathered and discarded
we’d eat their lunch
their sunlight parent run off
to the other side of the world
another continent, another grounding
where early is yet merely hinted
where the great weight of timely turning
has not stalled
but has been briefly, sleepily forgotten
The Dog Star 
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