Crab-Apple Trees Nearing Autumn (a poem of interest)

Heavy with small sour apples—round,
Darkening like clustered bruises
Left by stones of hope thrown daily
Through windows of opportunity
Long-broken—their boughs are bent

As the thin shoulders of old men
Tears—held in silence, brimming
Behind lashes like tangled saplings
Fallen in the bend of a brook—were
Never let to fall upon, never,

Never allowed to flow and sluice
Away years of dusty dreams,
The residue of yesterdays spent
Wishing at dry wells advertised
As cool clear water, sweet for all.

There’s a wind now stirring long grass
Beneath them, and though thin limbs,
Stiff, heavy, may barely move in it,
Some apples will fall. Pick one up,
Throw it through a plate-glass window.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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