WHEN APPLES FALL

When apples fall
from the trees
now with luminous leaves
in crimson arrangements
my mind goes back
to many harvest of sheaves
where Walt  Whitman rests
near the big muddy river bed
finds a penny and a diary
as he notices
a  red winged blackbird
on the fir branches
in the forest back woods
visiting his many brothers
fresh- faced yet injured
in whom America believes
by the Civil War sounds
scattered over our landscape
watching letters delivered
from the railroad underground
as he exhibits good will
to shape our poetic colors
on an Autumn's first light
singing tunes
in the grey dawn chill
with the sun reflected here
in words of earthy love
expressed in thrilling passages
to another body.