The Apple by John Grey

In winter, I’m never far from loud radiators,
those hissing metal bulwarks,
and I start to feel as old as the weather,
as if flakes are landing in my hair
and, even when they thaw,
some of the whiteness stays behind.

That’s why I’m always ready for spring,
when my fancy turns to pruning,
cutting away the dead or the selfish,
and the rain doesn’t bother me
because I always figure some of the growing
will include me in future blooms.

Summer is my ambivalence, bare feet versus sweat,
greenery in one corner, humidity in the other,
and a weariness spiked with cookouts
as the sky presses down on me.

And in fall, I embrace the pastel passion,
even if it’s a dying hue,
foreshadowing the somber gray,
the skeletons to come.
For I can reach up to, pluck, then eat
the sweetest, ripest apple in the world.

The seasons have their reasons.
I get away with one.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.