Honey Crisp

This day tastes of the cool Honey Crisp apples
Picked by hand at Solebury Orchards

The species of apple that drools
Tart fall sap-juice down the side
Of my mouth
Running the jaw-line
Before I can catch it
Trickling down the side of my throat

The sweet scent of hay
Straw
Horse manure
And pumpkin
Lingering
While I bring
The back of my hand up
Too slowly
To wipe the apple dew away

Realizing
The futility
Of such a movement

I am compelled
To take another bite

And another

Until there is but a core
Of a brisk
White-sun bleached
Autumn day