apple picking

I read a poem about apples,
by Frost.

it's not a difficult poem at all.
but still,

I want it to go places it doesn't
go.

I feel the cold, the ladders rungs.
the tree with their
high limbs
still clutching what
can't be reached.

but somehow I want more.
there is too much distance between
me
and the words.

obscure in metaphor. i'm reaching
for what
can't be reached.