Some thoughts at the solstice

Crisp, tart apples,

sliced cold and salted,

two of them on a plate

beside almonds and red grapes.

The hum of a space heater

in an old house

at the beginning of winter;

this is the shortest today of the year.

Three hundred and sixty-four

will be longer,

and a good bit of them will

undoubtedly be warmer.

Not that I pay too much mind

to the cold just now;

I have the heater, and I have you,

and I have the apples.

I definitely have the apples.