Fall Poetry From Boreegard

Even the Most Imperfect Love Apples


Back from a hot family visit in Texas,
The cool October New England air,
Requires an inspection of the hallowed
Northern home ground, even after a mere week’s absence.

I fill the empty bird feeders,
And soon the crow caws,
The titmouse lands, and the
Cardinal pip pips from his tightly held branch.

In the wilting summer garden,
Elements of sweet basil still stand,
Guarding the diminishing supply of
Tomatoes against the voracious foraging deer.

I pick even the most imperfect Love Apples,
Roma, Early Girl, Big Boy, Celebrity,
Spotted, cracked, embarrassed by worm riddled bottoms,
Victims of too much rain, they cling to withered vines.

In the autumn kitchen I lave them in warm water,
Dry them and treat them as gifts from GOD,
Which surely they are.
For nothing has such sweetness and inner red intensity.


Boreegard
aka Mike O'Neil