In the homestead orchard, a cascade
of frozen yellow apples glows gold
against the darkening stands of fir:
I’ve never felt so wise nor so old.
A sister tree tumbles red delicious—
water-cored and rotting, yet persistent
on each stem, each hangs on to glory
with an end-of-life insistence.
Evening falls, the ground mist rises.
The last full moon this year does not fight
to shine. The apple trees spread their wealth;
fox comes to the scrumpies, and a flight
of roosting crows rises in a family fright,
settles to the branches back to sleep.
The year of many apples follows down the night:
I’ve never felt so dark nor so bright.
Sandy Brown Jensen
Homestead Apples
Solstice 2019
In the homestead orchard, a cascade
of frozen yellow apples glows gold
against the darkening stands of fir:
I’ve never felt so wise nor so old.
A sister tree tumbles red delicious—
water-cored and rotting, yet persistent
on each stem, each hangs on to glory
with an end-of-life insistence.
Evening falls, the ground mist rises.
The last full moon this year does not fight
to shine. The apple trees spread their wealth;
fox comes to the scrumpies, and a flight
of roosting crows rises in a family fright,
settles to the branches back to sleep.
The Year of Many Apples follows down the night:
I’ve never felt so dark nor so bright.
–Sandy Brown Jensen