July,
and the rich apples
once again falling.
You put them to your lips,
as you were meant to,
enter a sweetness
the earth wants to give.
Everything loves this way,
in gold honey,
in gold mountain grass
that carries lightly the shadow of hawks,
the shadow of clouds passing by.
And the dry grasses,
the live oaks and bays,
taste the apples’ deep sweetness
because you taste it as you were meant to,
tasting the life that is yours,
while below, the foghorns bend to their work,
bringing home what is coming home,
blessing what goes.
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