Apples In Autumn

Bushels of apples are in tubs and bins all over the place A variety of kinds, yellows, reds, none a disgrace We cut out the bad spots and turn them into pie Fresh applesauce smells make the harvest men sigh Let’s make some cobbler says Gran as she rolls out the dough She sprinkles it with sugar and love, making it just so. I ask if I can fork the top and she says “I cannot see why not”. But after a few piercings she yells out “now, stop!” Apple cider is made along with apple butter for Gramps. He brings home some farm workers, some of them look like tramps. They use polite words and say “thank you” again and again. Some leave with an extra piece of pie, wearing a great big grin.