August

a poem

Between the dried stems of the Cosmos

an abandoned spider web, tunnel shaped husk

of past dinners hangs by a thread.

The apples, small and green,

are beginning to blush.

Harvest doubts arise, is it too early to take what's offered?

Later the banded garden spider appears in the Smoke Bush,

taut web bouncing like a trampoline in the wind.

Under the apple tree a fallen apple offers itself

to the thirsty wasps, little legs caressing the edges of its wound;

bruised flesh, welcome feast.

This garden, a place of rupture and renewal.

Strands of invisible web snap against my cheek,

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I whisper;

and cup a still ripening apple in my palm.

*the seed for this poem came from a prompt in

Writing in the Dark with Jeannine Ouellette