Each apple a package, dusky  
and tart-sweet, bundle  
from the tree’s green clouds.
 
Acre once meant forest  
or a tract of land untended.  
 
Now it measures a portion  
of orchard or field tilled  
through sage-laced heat,
 
the scent of dust and fruit,  
time and weather I bury
 
like a sachet, small packet  
of summers stashed in a drawer.
A harvest to crush and savor
 
if our parcels are sold  
to plant a crop of houses.