Wyeth, Apples on a Bough, Study Before Picking, 1942
I just picked and ate the first apple
of the year, slightly sour, from a low-hanging
branch. There was a deep peck hole
from a magpie I ate around. Me and the birds,
deer, the apple herself, are lucky to have apples in our world.
The biggest branch broke off in a storm and we lost
a third of the harvest, like the dog eating rabbits
and duck eggs. Nature gets bruised, injured,
murdered in bed. But now staring into the greenery
there are hundreds of apples slowly turning rose.
We are saved from apple hunger.