Poem of the Week: Watching Green Apples Ripen

BY HARRY WAITZMAN

The final straw is spun from tired grass.
I swim near stalks of goldenrod
and wave to bumble bees.

I’m an unhappy bullfrog grumping
in a muddy pond. In nearby orchards,
time flies like herons and bees.

I dive near lilies and sunfish. Cicadas sing
arias. The silver haired conductor in heaven
hums, his baton falls from tired hands.

Minutes crawl like crabs along my spine.
I brush beads of sweat from my nose
and brow. Polished by sunlight,

they tickle. I leave the pond and sit
on the couch of consolation watching
green apples ripen.

I challenge my dreams to rise
above conceit and morph silently
into tadpoles and whales.

Swimming below an ice flow, I swallow
krill and a stomach full of blue butterflies.
The ivory tusk of a narwhale tickles.