How Did I Get Here?

Frost is a distant memory,

a half-remembered chill,

just a little shivery,

in the warmth of late summery

evenings beneath apple trees

losing their shine,

all their energy and will

bent toward fruiting and sweetening

the last of the crop,

with an eye on time

and its running out.

It's easy to forget what happens after

the last sweet bite of golden days,

thinking the dribbling juices

will last forever and under the tree

isn't a precarious place to be.

I like the cold, still days

of deep and quiet winter.

It's the passage from there to here

that startled me.