by Jes Davis
Things ripen. Apples.
The very tip
top. Branches in disdain.
Of ladders. Men, too
in their own time bowing
under the smoky scent
of autumn. Fallen
fruit is mostly
bruised. He gathers
the unlovable. In sacks.
Brushes away the yellow
jackets, dutifully. Carries
them to the crusher. Watches
their reduction, pomace
bodies left behind.
Fluids pooling. Sweet
elixir flowing.
Into bottles,
everything being
until it is not.
Smoky Quartz 