Crab apples are showing, the first of October,
Little red spheres on a low-hanging tree
Instant conviction that summer is over
Same as the ageing of you and of me
Some of them fallen and split to the core
Some of them nibbled from center to skin,
What else is the growing of crab apples for?
Feeding the nibblers? Some lose and some win?
Perhaps all are winners, existence the prize,
Being, not being—alternatives two,
No matter the color, no matter the size
That they turn in October, the groupings are few
Here is the mystery, why should there be
Existence at all? take you and take me