A Guest Writer

On one of our morning walks a week or so ago, Woki and I spotted this basket of apples on the ground. All alone at the edge of the sidewalk, it looked poetically abandoned and forlorn. I was reminded of a poem my grandmother wrote many years ago. She was quite a proficient poet, with far more publishing credentials than I have. Her work appeared in the Chicago Tribune, the New York Times, and New Yorker Magazine to name just a few.

SONG OF APPLES

On your doorstep, dear, at dewfall

I will leave an offering:

Apples, yellow, russet, crimson

From the topmost boughs I'll bring.

Country apples, all unpolished,

Bright as the Hesperides'

Golden globes by dragon guarded,

These from harvest-heavy trees.

With them is my love, a windfall,

Far from perfect, at your feet--

All too easy to be gathered,

Will you have it? Will you eat?

                                                      --Mary Adams Winter