The scent of sweet apples roamsSeptember’s yielding rain-soaked skin
A transient softness full of hard nose
Black mulch mud proudly boot sole sticks
Committing witless with wind-crept aridity
An imprint baked firm dry to remain
But such intensity is purloined on the rot
Such richness arced in apple weeks
On and on until to soil they are returned
And so are all footfalls set down
Awaiting a raindrop’s destructive power
Or the windly ministrations days ahead
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