Saturday, November 26, 2016

Niagara Sonnet Twenty-Two



Many red apples of your orchard grow,
each rust variety I could desire,
eaten fresh or roasted over the fire,
glow in deep burgundy, magenta, rose.
You harvest the supernatural book
to feed a town not far from the river,
from the King James’ version, reading scripture—
an Abbott was once fjording the clear brook.
They sold your ripe fruit at the marketplace,
McIntosh, Spartans, piled high in wood bins—
you were a ruffian who’s forgiven,
you offered help to the lady with lace,
she crocheted doilies for your table,
where the fruit bowl would sit and be stable.
Emily Isaacson