With Apples
MARK VAN DOREN
The last leaves are down, and the iron
Trunks, solitary, say they can stand there
Seven cold months without perceptible
Change. But the green ground changes
Daily, so that Hallaway’s old horses,
The brown one, the black one,
Nibble at next to nothing where the hoarfrost
Of hours ago gave way before the yellow and still blowing,
Blowing — some of them purple — leaves.
These move, head down, but listen:
Someone may be coming, even now, in the bright wind,
With apples. I am coming.
Four pockets full, and extras on the hip.
Hi, there, Handsome Jerry!
Don’t you know me, Slobbery Mack?
Trunks, solitary, say they can stand there
Seven cold months without perceptible
Change. But the green ground changes
Daily, so that Hallaway’s old horses,
The brown one, the black one,
Nibble at next to nothing where the hoarfrost
Of hours ago gave way before the yellow and still blowing,
Blowing — some of them purple — leaves.
These move, head down, but listen:
Someone may be coming, even now, in the bright wind,
With apples. I am coming.
Four pockets full, and extras on the hip.
Hi, there, Handsome Jerry!
Don’t you know me, Slobbery Mack?