-This poem reflects on the orchard ladder at the close of harvest, where the work of gathering fruit gives way to fading light, fallen apples, and one remaining apple beyond reach.
The ladder leans into the tree,
its wooden rungs are dark with rain,
while apples glow among the leaves
beyond the reach of outstretched hands.
We climb where thinner branches sway,
and turn each fruit until it yields;
below, the baskets slowly fill
with russet, crimson, green, and gold.
A robin watches from the fence,
then drops among the fallen fruit;
the orchard smells of bruised sweet flesh,
wet bark, and leaves beneath our boots.
By dusk, the ladder stands alone,
the upper branches lose their light;
one apple hangs above the last rung,
and moves a little in the wind.