In autumn
the back garden
is stones and quinces.

The stones are there
all year round.

The quinces
start arriving
late summer
hanging
from the branches
amongst the leaves
of the neighbour’s trees
then
falling
dropping
over the northern fence.

We don’t mind.
Ornaments
amidst
the stones’ many shades of
white and brown.

Gnarled rocks
green into yellow
bigger than tennis balls.
Nobody wants them.
The bugs, yes,
but not the birds
or the mice
or the possums.

Julie cooked a few
 – the unforgiving fruit,
not the mice or the possums –
but it was hardly worth it
after the peeling
the chopping
the cutting out
of imperfections,
the adding
of a ton of sugar.

So I collect them
from the paling boundary
in a red bucket.
Empty them into
the dampness
of the compost bin
amidst the remains of
apple cores
banana skins
carrots
pumpkins
tomatoes
avocados…

I slice and dice
the hard harvest
into chunks
with the shovel.
It’s not a bad workout.

Rocky quinces in autumn.
Not totally useless.