In the apple orchard

On the dense, fleshy beach
a young boy fingers
his brazen diaper
it drinks the tide
water waiting

A young woman browns
in the burnt sunlight
the tide retreats
unconcerned
even with itself

August has started without me
trade winds betray
their boatsmen
choosing instead to
move inland

By the house on the hill
a clothesline full
of downside shirts wave
a toweling jib
in the dancing wind

The last time we met
the night was drenched in rain
you said all we had to do
was give the wind our name

I wondered if it were true

In the apple orchard
an old man lingers
savoring the gritty
gnarled leavings
the pickers disregard