Do you remember how perfect
the orchard was, that day,
when an amber sun was day drunk,
sloppy-kissing treetops as we walked
beneath a Norman Rockwell scene.
The cherry-red wagon was either
too heavy with a burden of giggles
or too many bushels, both
threatening to topple.
How many lives have been lived
since then, when the innocence
of sticky fingers fought over
the last apple cider donut before
being swiped onto dirt-stained jeans
that’d fallen in the corn maze three times.
Best friends for an hour jammed
on tire swings with snot noses
and back to school colds while parents
watched and forgot what existed
outside the border of farm magic.
Pumpkins are purchased after
negotiating not to buy the largest
and we stockpile into the car,
clueless to what wonders
were left behind, that day.