When the Other Shoe Drops

Old house, new house, a few

token leaves that hang to the oak,

strung dried like a banjo tuned

to hard tones of falling acorns,

regular efforts, created patterns,

while others are elsewhere

mixed on an air of chance, fate,

fathoms off the smallest twig 

that holds until it won't, like

what gets kept alone and abides

up in the attic while weighing

on down to the slab basement

in creaks, cracks, of wood planks

worn off from a dule tree's hymnal,

sunset apples over the ground

with their vinegar of weariness,

that does pass, is only known

by a heart, a gasp, from what is

and has been a mere second-

meant by you, to last forever.