Its Apple Picking Time
Fresh juice runs down her chin. Fresh autumn air
climbs through the orchard. It’s apple picking time.
A zipping swoosh overhead with laughs and legs
swinging. Bushel baskets, cram-filled, on the ground.
Can’t reach? A palm will hoist children onto a branch.
The unwaxed orbs plucked until each tree is bare.
Deep diving, winding through the trees, to find more.
Occasionally, snatching a good one around the roots.
Bees are buzzing - the sweetness is driving them wild.
Robust garden, of Autumn’s breast, beating, with hearts.
Teen boys spy the apple of their eyes - cute schoolgirls
wrapped in wool whilst parents shop for cider and doughnuts.
Favorite apples go home: Honeycrisp and Cosmic Crisp,
Granny Smith, Pink Lady, McIntosh, and Green Apple Dragon.
Depends on where you live, whether the apple makes
a sound at all, whether Newton’s offspring knocks you out.
Time to go home, make a Dutch apple pie, something sour
or sweet, take a bite out of the tree of life, drizzled with caramel.
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