My Human Disguise.
Almost past its prime, my fruit falls, bruises,
Before the harvest has even begun.
Pears and peaches are picked up in the end —
Even though they rot, they’ve other uses.
The burning bush, ignited by the sun —
The apple trees, whose burdened branches bend
Almost to the grass — are both flaming red.
They’ll soon be stripped of life — barren, not dead.
My grapes tumble into the wine presses,
Where pulp turns to juice from urgent stresses.
The Argiope spider in his web still
Hungers, before hard frost, for a last kill.
My summer mate gone, I am gourd and leaf,
Nothing more. Winter will bring cold relief.
