Apple-picking

It is apple-picking season.  Someone else is going to have to pick apples for me this year.  It*s not like I pick apples every year.  I don*t.  But this year I am very aware of not picking apples, and also knowing that others are picking them for me.  And making apple butter and apple cider and even apple pie.  

The necessary conversations

Have been had

For Monday morning in the rain.

I have made the doctor appointments.

They coordinate with people who can drive

And tell jokes

At the same time.

Forget walking and chewing gum.

Coffee waits, blurred, at my left hand.

I would like to write

About apple picking

Except I have picked

No apples

This fall.

Instead I see snippets

Of God*s timeline stretched out.

I pick a date here,

An occasion there.

I know it all comes together

At the end,

In more than a bushel basket

More than apple cider

More than apple butter

More than the best apple pie

Baked with the most love and care

In the world.

It all comes together in the end,

Whether I ever go picking apples

This fall

Or not.

Even if it all stays blurred

Like the coffee

At my left hand.