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