Fresh

Every word you speak
is fresh
like the farmer's market.
I am a boy and
an apple is red, with moist
skin; it sits.
Like autumn's 30 days. Like the boy
who sits.
Whistlers tune their grandfathers' melodies
with sticks and berries. Red
apple juices in their fragile hands.
Andrew plays his grandfather's lips,
sings
red-handed.
Every note is fresh.