At the Apple Orchard

We came from the city
to pick the apples, green, red and gold,
to fill our lungs with the scent of the fruits,
even the hidden worm-ridden scent 
is better than the city air;

we came to be surrounded by the atmosphere
of the shared goal--to be ripen, ripen only;
oh, that mature spirit!
wish to drown in it all day long, forever more.

We fill our baskets with
many hues and aromas,
but only one shared goal,
to take home;
to mix them with our daily lives,
to bake pies that bloom in our hearts. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

My two poems, Moaning of Moon and Unprecedented, flood have been
accepted for Fall printed issue of the Avocet, journal of Nature poetry.
Thank you, Charles and Vivian for accepting these pieces. 

Late August Morning

Touch of the wind lost 
the summer's heat;
older man's coolness,
yet the cotton leaves dance
in the reverie of yesterdays.

North wind, precursor 
of the snowman that
ignores the laughs of
the dancing leaves;
scheme for the October. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Maple of the Junipers, in my faulty eyes

Maple ensconces herself in the middle of 
the growth, of the junipers in the yard
by the house, rising above all the prickly needles.
her slender body, lush green leaves, bright in the sun.

Come, join us, the junipers had welcomed her, when,
as a seed, she fell from the air on a windy night.
frightened, wondering if she'd survive. survive she did.
flourishing in the cheers of the junipers.

Then, alas, I cut her off.
gazed at the junipers, who don't know how to say no.
Now, happy? I smile at them.

Sudden wails of junipers, only in my ears,
shivers; rebuke the human-centered behavior
that ruined the rare beauty.
I pick up the severed maple branch, set it on
the trunk, and watch it tumble down.

Ah, but the trunk is still there, cuddled 
in the bosom of the junipers, holding on
to the last hope, she will rise again. will she?
the thought lingers on, with desire.

©Byung A. Fallgren

  

August 
Helen hunt Jackson

Silence again. The glorious symphony 
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects' aimless industry. 
Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry
Of color to conceal her swift decrease. 
Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day of the fleece
A blossom and lay bare her poverty. 
Poor middle-aged summer! Vain this show!
Whole fields of golden rod cannot off set
One meadow with single violet;
And well the singing thrush and lily know,
Spite of all artifice which he regret
Can deck in splending guise, their time to go! 

Helen Hunt Jackson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts,
in 1830. She published five collections of poetry and was
posthumosly inducted into Colorado Women's Hall of Fame
in 1985.