Gathering Windfalls

THESE early apples are small this year,
Imperfect things, you’d say they were
Poor pearls to plunge for in orchard grass;
They hide under the fret and lace
Of weed and wildflower, lost they lie
Where the hand finds them before the eye
Or feel come suddenly on round
Green pebbles, half-buried underground -
You’d think they’d grown and ripened there,
Apples of earth instead of air.
And some are worm-eaten, bird-bitten,
Pitted and pocked and storm-smitten;
You’d say they were not worth the taking,
The time and sweat and back-breaking.
But your dog laughs, for in his eyes
An apple orchard is paradise.
He has the morning, he has the sun
And the high grass where he can run
Miles after a wormy apple,
Lose it and lose himself in the dappled
Cool ocean of under tree,
Up to the neck in ecstasy.