FINDERS KEEPERS
Early dusk in mid-autumn. The air is scented with damp earth and fermenting leaves. I’m on a walk in my neighborhood. As there are no sidewalks, I walk in the road, staying close to the brush, the weeds and dirt and. . . apples. Apples? I look up. An apple tree. Here. In a suburb of New York City. The ground is covered with them. They are pitted and bruised and have soft spots, but I gather up as many as my pockets and hands can hold, feeling like I did when as a child I found a penny on the sidewalk.
wind-fall apples
cutting out the bad parts
to make applesauce;
if time spent were money
I couldn’t afford a jar
Contemporary Haibun Online
