Because The Tuning

Because the tuning of my ears is out, 

and I can no longer hear music --

only remember it. Because dawn comes as I write 

and in the stillness before the first bird 

there is a restlessness, and the trees rock, and trail their fingers
over the fence tops; and the last bit of moon 
is eaten up by cloud.  Because the new crop will happen
after my time, and in this now, the wrinkled apple

is the sweetest to be found --

because the truth is, no one wants the truth.