It’s wrong, I know, shameful to resent
the tree’s unstinting act of giving, but
I’ve had all I can take of this sweet glut,
which will not wait for hands, but must, decadent
flump to the ground with its zither of meddling flies.
For something in my pennywise heart can’t let
gold go to waste, but bids me grab all the delicate
ingots I can hold, as I warily rise
on toddling ladder feet. What one life lacks
is another’s nuisance. And what does it portend,
this epic crop? Has an old tree, sensing its end,
thrown all its failing strength to stay the axe
of time? Or has nature always tried to cram
her largesse down our throats, deaf to any voice
that dare say no? There was a time I could rejoice
in rot. It’s too familiar now. And so I’ll jam
and jar until the sweet stench stains my pores
and cupboards all but buckle to contain
too much to spread before May comes again
with more bright gifts than one heart can endure.
poetry 