From Boomer's Window — August

Soon the Witt Swamp maples
Bordering the lake will gracefully fall
Bequeathing the greens and blues some red
And remind me of apple season's first day
The least breeze being late September's slap in the face.

The first day of picking —
Bins and trees assigned — chilly
The immediacy of riotously colored foliage
Blazing to horizons one way or another
And shivering Jamaicans hugging themselves
From cold awakening our senses.

They speak of "the other brother."
Collectively, I need money too. Join them.
But see the beauty beyond the immediacy
And wonder what they think of all this
As they're not home.
The owners condense the reality of the day.
"You pick — we pay"