Harvest Time Melancholy

Once I found an apple,

Fallen at the bottom of a tree;

It could have followed

the laws of gravity down the hill

but, instead, it had kept near.

It had belonged to that apple tree

Before it fell to the ground,

“Finders are keepers”, I told myself,

So I picked it up as something 
that had always belonged to me.

I once owned a perfect apple,

mine in its fullest of ripeness,

with moist, fleshy sweetness

surrounding the brown seeds.

At the end of its summers and springs,
just like Isaac Newton,

I sat down for a while
and thanked the tree for the apple, 

thought about autumn and gravity,
then stood up 
and looked down the hill.