They'll Ripen and Drop

 

Inside reflection:
Kitchen light vies with the sun;
(An unequal match).

Where will my plant go?
It has grown so tall outside.
Too big for the house.

 

 



Silently jumping
Indiana leaps in shade;
Gleeful shouts follow.

 

What season is this
With its blue sky and warm sun?
Spring? Fall? or Summer?

 

A wayward shack sits
In the shadow of the house--
Its own mystery.

 

It's dry no longer
The ancient empty stream bed.
Has its new mirrors.

 

 

Grove of bloom-less plants,
Their seeds given to the wind;
Bare, without purpose.

 

Nobody eats them,
These hanging green wild apples.
They'll ripen and drop.