Though hail would hiss to quell late August’s sun,
the apple bloom was beckoned by its glow.
Their limbs would stretch to grasp another one;
at each elbow a glassy batch would grow.
With rosy eyes I’d gather mighty crops
of golden spheres with luscious blood-rich stains.
But you’d save fruit too shameful for the tops-
your hands like fading leaves with wilting veins.
For weeks we’d feast upon the crisp, pale flesh
until the skin became wrinkled and tart.
I mourned the mundane taste; gorgeously fresh
and cried my tears upon your fragile heart.