The Bitter Bite

These October blooms are on borrowed time,

But I made a deal in April to see them through

To their frost-sealed fate—and we are not

Yet there, the few thirty-something mornings

Burned off like so much fog by a temperate sun,

Larkspur and snapdragon reawakened by the

Nightly chill, vigorous as if another summer lay

Ahead, undaunted and unaware of measures

Of calendar and degree. What must it be to live

With no thought of death? The apple cannot be

Uneaten, its acid burned red into our tongue,

But time sometimes allows an unmarked passage

Into being wherein, forgetting, we flower until the

Self remembers and takes the bitter bite again.

10/27/2024