In this Poem, We Will Not Glorify Sunrise

nor admire the apples that blossom
during a February heat wave only to
wilt and die in a mid-May freeze. Doom,
such a fickle bitch. She’s snow spilling into
Reno where planeloads of people sick
of winter have gone to gamble in tank tops
and shorts. Here it’s seventy-three degrees, 
warm enough to sunbathe on a Lake Ontario
beach. Overhead a jet pirouettes toward
the airport fluttering white scarves of vapor:
Contrails, kissing cousin to entrails. Mine
are glistening and pink as a sunrise except
for one rotten spot that’s something to watch                                    
in the future.  How it always starts for the apple.