The Promises Of Autumn

I bit into the apple
knowing it would be a disappointment.
It was too light in my hand
to have ripened well,
too sickly pale
to have matured on the tree
where it belonged.

But I bit anyway,
hoping against reason for a
crisp, tart crunch to fill my mouth
and feed me the promises of autumn—
family dinners, a child in my lap.
But the flesh is pasty and tasteless,
gives way without resistance,
decomposes on my tongue.

I spit it out
but can’t help turning the apple in my hand,
hefting it again,
wondering if, perhaps, the other side had faced out,
shouldered a bit more wind,
weathered colder nights,
soaked in more sun,
had more to offer.