Apple Light

The apple light of dawn
wastes time on each dew drop
upon the lawn

as if these foundlings knew
more than their hour of being
has brought them to;

more than a brief dark waiting
for songster-heralded rose.
Anticipating

more than an autumn sun
has in its gift, they gleam
as if to run

to steam. Futile, they see
their coming blindness as
rays steepen. We

have no illusions, brook
no watery complaint
beyond a look

of resignation. Oats
for beasts. New Zealand rugs.
Oiled canvas coats.

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