Fall turns finally cold and my apples streak with red, fatten
with sugar. The drowsy yellowjackets watch as I fill
bag after bag. I am making plans for these apples the way
I once imagined Jesus made plans for my one life—
Jesus with a million blueprints rolled up under his arms,
some spilling onto the floor in a brutalist building
made of thunderclouds. As for the apples, some will live on
as compote, some as cider. Some as pie filling I’ll freeze
for the holidays. It’s another year I don’t go home
to Florida but instead stay here, my new home, where the trees
are turning the color of maps in library basements.
The path forward is brittle and impossible to read
so I will live my one life like these yellowjackets,
whom winter will kill. Full of sweetness sleeping in the apples.