The ripening fruit hangs from the tree,
lies rotting upon the grass beneath,
or insects eat it first;
else at its peak is picked. So we
prepare for time to do its worst
and wish a seemly death.
The bottled damsons darkly glow,
a single apple’s shared with friends,
the pears will ripen last.
It rains. We watch as branches blow,
trunks bend and high-piled clouds race past,
and hope the weather mends.
An old friend’s mad, many are ill
a few are dead, and we defy,
on better days, decline;
we’ve strategies against what will,
what may; we drink and lay down wine
and know that we must die.
This is not new, of course; of course.
and we will welcome in the one
who tells unwelcome truth,
showing the pantomimic horse
attempting in the darkening sun
some attitudes of youth.