Little Apples
by Theodora Goss

I gathered the little apples even though the wasps
told me the apples were theirs. They would alight
on an apple, a ripe one of course, and suck
out its sweetness. Under the tree, the overripe ones
lay on the grass, striped red and orange,
with an intriguing variety of bruises, smelling
too sweet, eau de pomme trop mûres, the perfume
of autumn. I chose from among the ones
still on the tree, still partly green, but already
turning red, freckled and striated, twisting
their stems until they detached, deciding
if they were not sweet enough, I would turn them,
chopped and simmered to the color of honey,
into compote with a bit of cane sugar,
then ladle them into glass bottles, keeping
the apples that way, not letting this perfect autumn
escape from me, not letting our time together
escape from me, like a wasp forever in amber.

(The image is Basket of Apples by Claude Monet.)