Frostish

I want it so bad
I can feel it
In my barren gut.
The need consumes
My every single thought.
No.
It really
Doesn’t:
I want to milk
My cows at noon,
To have a lazy
Rooster crow at
Half past two
And piss off the
Neighbors when I
Ride the horses
Where I shouldn’t
And pick the corn
Whenever the hell I want
And plant peanuts
In the same soil
Over and over
And over again.

I want it so bad
I can taste it.

Summer Indian

October spring,
Summer’s aged flight
Of crows and jays
And yet encroaching night.

October fling,
Gilded stratus strands
Of chirping days—
Misanthropic plans.

October thing,
Melancholia unsuperable
Ravenous lust
Unpursuable.

Underscored October,
Halloweeny waste,
Sweet and bitter taste,
Unimportant haste,
Unsing-songy base,
Of unsprung:
October unrequited.

For Ally’s Apple Orchard:

Before After Apple-Picking

Everything I know, or should, ‘bout apple-picking
I learned from Frost.
And still, in apple orchards, I am lost;
Unframed, minding where the ladder’s sticking.
Prematurely picked, apples not quite ripe,
Too tardy snatched and the flavor isn’t right.
Partly filling barrels by the twilight,
His wisdom tells me that I’ve just begun
To lyrically sum regrets with this chore:
A remedy: A meditative task:
A metaphor around which anthem’s spun,
Answering questions I have yet to ask.
I have started after-apple-picking first
Instead of last
Conjoining voice of youth with soul of past
This cannot last.
Not juiced nor cider’d nor unpicked, I thirst
For sweet and ripened, perfect fruit to barrel fill,
Nigh worm’d, or bruised, some worse,
Spring blossom reminisce in Autumn chill.
With many unfilled barrels, I am cursed,
Endings come first, without a hearty start,
For apples hid just out of sight.

This apple orchard place permits no rest.
The time’s not yet
To ruminate on all the ways I’m blessed
Or even count the haul.
Too many barrels yet remain unfilled,
And I have higher ladders still to build.
It’s only late summer or early fall,
I don’t recall. This early harvest swells,
Not quells,
With bitter picks.
Wiser ones know this task stands better-suited
For blue days, after October’s first flake:
Frosty Fall mix.
Such wisdom here falls, muted,
Behind a pane of frozen casement frame,
Or cellar from.
Alas, this after-apple-picking task
Appears a hassle, daunting chore to some—
Undone, unfilled cask.