November

The sun dripped honey-colored days
into the valley of November. I watched
trees glisten in pale amber, bare twigs
pricked against the sky, felt blood and
sap pulse with the memory of spring as
the wind kept truce on the horizon,
and the valley opened its heart under
the Indian summer sky.
And so I filled your hands with
apples, ripe beyond their time but
still sweet in the mellow flavor of
desire. I beg you accept my harvest
while gold light blinds us both to
the withered aftermath of frost.