Culling

Dozens of small apples rot in a mound

Amid their family trees, moth damaged

Fated never to mature.

I pick them off the grass or off the tree

After spotting frass of larvae and toss

Host and pest onto the pile.

As I work, my spider’s mind spins images

That I shall add to my pile of poems,

To ripen or to rot.

Such culling is the rule of life, of art;

To keep is easy, to discard is hard.