A brief and fragile thing

It is only frost, I know.
And I know the slightest breeze
will end this, that which gathered
in the apple tree — the overnight fog,
water’s unquenchable passion
to cling and hurry itself outward always,
armored in a way, reptilian and there
for me alone this morning black: the rime,
the limbs, the few reluctant leaves,
the top bound fruits as always
fisted and quite out of reach
when ripeness came all a somber —
permanence, a brief and fragile thing.

Image: Timofei Ryazanov on Unsplash

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