The Last of Summer

by Joshua Wait

The smell of apples
seeps under the bedroom door.
For weeks, hundreds of them
have sat on the kitchen floor.
This morning, coddling moth larvae
hang from the counter on silken strings.
They trying to hold on to summer.
One, on my finger, clings.

A strong flick of the wrist,
it drops with a shake.
The worms go out in the trash,
with soft apples and stale apricot cake.
We made fifteen pints of apricot jam.
It seemed like too much,
but after ending up on toast and lamb,
it seems like not enough.

With no rain this spring to damage the blossoms
the foggy mornings didn’t seem so glum.
The dry season filled our freezer
with an ocean of plum.
We can unzip a bag of our frozen treasure
and drop a handful of plums into a pot—
cook them in vinegar, ginger, and sugar,
until they’re bubbling hot.

The apples might end up as cider–
we’ve already made two pies with a buttery crust.
Thinking now of summer–apples, plums and apricots–
I hold on to it with silky thread of unbridled lust.