White Apples

(Donald Hall, poet laureate, 2006-2007)

WHITE APPLES

when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in my bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes

~ Donald Hall, born 1928, American poet and essayist